


Cover My Eyes (It's Already Over)

by iwannagetbetter



Series: Cover My Eyes [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Break Up, But He Gets Better, Coming Out, Getting Together, Kent Parson is not doing all that well, Las Vegas Aces, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwannagetbetter/pseuds/iwannagetbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent's recovery has been a long time coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cover My Eyes (It's Already Over)

**Author's Note:**

> This story comes with a lot of trigger warnings. It deals with overdoses, PTSD, breaking up, coming out, and a lot of sadness. A more detailed, more spoiler-y version of this list can be found in the end notes. But not everything is sad! Lots of this is actually quite happy!
> 
> Major thanks to sadquebecois, without whom this would suck way more. I owe you, my dude.
> 
> Fic is set in the 2015-2016 season. It alternates POV.

**/////**

Any idiot who reads the sports page of a given North American newspaper knows that Kent Parson has everything: trophies, rings, sweaters, letters—the whole nine yards. His name is on the Stanley Cup; it’s also on the lease of a penthouse that forms part of the Las Vegas skyline. His car is fast, his cat is fat, and he doesn’t have to think twice about dropping money on a plane ticket to go see his mom for the holidays.

Kent’s team is like a family; they’re fucked up and imperfect and they steal his stuff when he’s not looking, but they’re loyal to the fucking core.

Then in November, their starting goalie tears his MCL, and the carefully maintained façade begins to slip off of Kent’s corroding framework of a life.

 

**CHAPTER 1**

The trade hits Alex like a mack truck.

There’s no point trying to move all his stuff to Vegas in time for the Aces’ game the next day; instead, he packs a single bag to check at the airport and throws it into the passenger seat of his Corolla.

His flight leaves at three, but Elliott isn’t picking up his phone, so Alex backs out of his driveway just after noon. He heads to the public high school where Elliott teaches calculus to kids that have already been through more school than Alex even wants to imagine.

He parks, resisting the urge to full-out sprint into the building; it’s not like people will recognize him, really, because St. Louis is and always will be a baseball town, but Alex still doesn’t want to draw too much attention. He loiters for a moment in the entryway, waiting for the bell to sound for lunch so that most of the kids will have cleared out of the halls. Once they have, he steels himself and makes his way to the teacher’s lounge. Alex can see Elliott through the thin glass window even before he pushes his way inside.

Elliott looks up in surprise, a grin splitting his face.

“Hey, Alex,” Elliott says, and a chorus of greetings rise up from his friends—Alex knows Nance and Patrick, and they’re sitting with a couple other teachers eating their lunches out of brown paper bags. “What’re you doing here?”

“Um,” Alex says, and it’s like the mack truck is rolling back over him, taking extra time to put pressure in his chest and knees. They’ve talked about this, about the possibility that Alex could be traded, but up until this moment they’d referred to it in the same way that their apartment could be wiped away by a tornado, or Elliott could develop lung cancer from all those cigarettes he’d smoked when he was a stupid-ass kid. “Can I talk to you? Somewhere else.”

The smile slips off of Elliott’s face, leaving a kind of blank pallet that Alex knows stands in for fear. The other teachers look down at their lunches, Nance putting a hand on Elliott’s shoulder in solidarity as he rises.

Alex takes Elliott’s hand once they’re in the hallway, unable to make eye contact, and leads him into an empty office, shutting the door quietly after them.

“I got traded,” he manages, voice cracking, leaning back against the door and looking up at the drop-tiled ceiling to keep the tears welling up beneath his eyelashes from falling. “I’m going to Las Vegas. They have a game tomorrow, and my flight leaves at three.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, and then a croaked, “Today?”

“Yeah.”

Alex finally looks down in time to see Elliott close the distance between them, wrapping him in a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” Alex chokes out, his words sticking in his throat, “I’m so fucking sorry, Elliott, I—”

“Shhh,” Elliott breathes into his shoulder. “Don’t. It’s not your fault; it’s part of the job.”

“But I— _god_ —I can’t do it, I can’t leave you.”

“It’s okay. You might not have to,” Elliott says, and Alex feels the wheels of the figurative tractor trailer come to a halt on top of him, keeping the breath out of his lungs, “We can talk all of that over later. I’m sure they have underfunded schools in Vegas, too, right?”

Alex huffs a laugh at the weak attempt at a joke.

“Okay,” he says, and he turns his face to bury his nose in Elliott’s hair before breathing out slowly. “Okay.”

“Now you go,” Elliott pushes him away gently. “Catch your flight, and don’t worry about me, alright?”

Alex can only nod.

/////

As he turns out of the parking lot on the way to the airport, Alex feels as though he could cough up his heart and choke on it. This morning, he’d woken up to the buzz of Elliott's electric toothbrush and rolled out of bed to pack his boyfriend’s lunch; now he’s leaving one of their cars at an airport to catch a flight across the country.

Alex clenches his teeth and drives on.

/////

Aces left winger Leonard Gordon meets him at the terminal, holding up a sign that reads _Alexander Fitzgerald_ in an official sort of font, but all the gaps in the letters have been filled in with red Sharpie. Gordon doesn’t even have the dignity to look ashamed, introducing himself and throwing a careless arm around Alex’s shoulders like they’ve known each other for years.

It seems kind of stupid to have someone meet him there in the first place, since Alex is going straight to the hotel room he'll be staying in until he finds an apartment, and he says as much out loud. Gordon just brushes him off and happily summons a taxi, continuing to talk to Alex until it arrives. He thinks Gordo is chattering about the times they've faced each other on the ice, but Alex is a bit too dazed to actually pick up on any of it.

Gordon seems like a solid guy, and from what Alex can remember, he’s a solid player, as well. But, well, everyone probably appears to be at least a little bit better than they actually are when they’re on a line with Kent Parson.

Gordon eventually leaves Alex when they arrive at the hotel, but he gives him his number and tells him to call if he needs, “literally any fucking thing, my dude.”

/////

Alex’s first practice in the Aces’ net falls somewhere between euphoric and disastrous—if pressed, he might classify it as, “incredibly uncomfortable.” The primary reason for the atmosphere isn’t skittishness around their new goalie; it’s the fact that Jeff Yarborough, one of the guys Alex had been traded for, is apparently irreplaceable. He’d been in Vegas from the team’s beginning, and he’d cultivated pretty much the entire atmosphere in the locker room.

That isn’t to say that the Aces are particularly rude to Alex—they all know how the sport works, they know that trading a veteran winger and a rookie for a goalie _without_ a severe knee injury isn’t anything out of the ordinary—but it’s hard to separate the new guy from the gap left by the old one, no matter how many times everyone reminds themselves that Alex isn’t there to fill that space.

Alex isn’t bitter about it. He understands.

And really, the guys are great—the first line of Kent Parson flanked by Gordo and Scotty is enough to strike the fear of God into any defensive line. Scott’s good, even if he wasn’t even on the ice yesterday, instead watching Jeff harass their Captain from the bench. The new trio works together seamlessly, and Alex thanks his lucky stars that he’s just a goalie and doesn’t have to relearn his teammates’ playing styles in relation to his own.

Not that his job is easy—it’s not, no matter what—it’s just more straightforward than most others. Less teamwork, more flopping around in the same direction the puck’s going.

The whole day seems to drag on, as practice in the dome is followed by a meeting with the coaches and a few team executives, all of whose names Alex forgets almost immediately. The businessmen talk business, mostly outlining what they’ll need to talk about in future meetings and letting Alex see how the franchise is run.

Alex is a few seconds away from figuring out the best method of offing himself with one of the manilla folders he’s been handed when Kent Parson sticks his head in the door.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I gotta steal the man of the hour,” Parson says, smirking at the people who happen to own his ass. “We’re due up for a meeting, and I run a tight schedule on game days.”

Alex stands up a little too quickly, grabbing the various papers he’s been handed and peacing out with a slightly flippant wave.

“You’re a lifesaver, Parson,” he says as the door closes behind him. “I can only talk business for so long; there’s a reason I’m in the NHL and not a fucking cubicle, dammit.”

“No worries,” Parse says, and he sells the phrase in a way Alex couldn’t have ever imagined. “I do actually have stuff to talk about, but mostly I figured you could use some food.”

“You figured right is what you did,” Alex grumbles.

They meet the injured goalie at a sandwich chain a couple streets over. Chaz is already at a table in the back, his heavily braced leg propped up on the crossbar beneath one of the empty chairs beside him. He waves them over with a smile.

Between the two of them, Parson and Chaz give Alex the lowdown on the Aces organization. Most of it is legitimately relevant information, like how the team had been suffering ever since Chaz went down during a game against the Flames. Their backup was a rookie, and though he’d performed well enough in less competitive matches, he’d ultimately been the reason they dropped more than a couple of games in a row.

“And, like, Parse and I don’t wanna pin it all on Gibby, bless his poor, troubled soul,” Chaz says between bites, “but when your goalie is letting in four, five shots on average, team morale kinda bunks.”

“Pour one out for the rookie goalie,” Parson intones, splashing some of his water into Chaz’s empty sandwich basket.

Chaz glares at him over his sub but doesn’t retaliate, shaking his head and muttering, “Fucking childish, Parse, c’mon.”

“So basically,” Parson says to Alex, crumpling his wax paper into a ball and placing it gingerly into Chaz’s already water-filled basket, “it’d take a real effort to actually fuck this up.”

“We’re playing the Leafs, anyway,” Chaz snorts. “You could probably nap between the poles and we’d be golden.”

Parson cuffs him on the head as he stands. “Don’t jinx it, idiot. I’ll see you boys at the dome. Fitzpatrick, don’t let Chaz here talk your goddamned ear off.”

“Now _that’d_ be a hell of a sight,” Chaz says, grinning as Parson leaves.

“Yeah,” Alex grins, “It’d definitely screw with  my roguish good looks.”

Chaz laughs, probably more out of obligation than anything else, but then he focuses on a receipt left on the table and scoffs.

“Oh, hell, Parse left us with his bill. Fucking typical.”

“Does this happen often?”

“Like every fucking time.” Chaz shakes his head at the injustice of it all. “Just fucks right off and leaves the proles to foot his bill. I swear, I can’t take him anywhere.”

/////

After hours of meetings and introductions and warm-ups, it’s almost a relief to put on his new sweater and exit the locker room. Alex knows the ice; he knows the net, even if unfamiliar colors and names are glaring at him from every angle. He can isolate and numb the part of his chest that’s burning with something other than gameday hype, the reminder that it’s a home game, that these players with greyscale outfits and colorful language are his new teammates, that an empty hotel bed is part of his life now.

Alex has been in the game long enough to be able to switch from calculated thought to pure instinct, and that’s what he has to do—he has to keep his eyes on the puck, squaring to it, waiting for it.

He doesn’t get the shutout, but they win 4-1 on Parson’s goal, and the Leafs’ goaltender Jonathan Bernier claps him on the back with uncharacteristic words of encouragement as the Aces finally head off the ice.

In the locker room, Alex allows himself to finally realize his own exhaustion; he’s honestly prepared to fall into bed before he even makes it to the showers, but he and Parson and Sebastian Mäkinen, the left winger on their third line who had a hand in half their goals, have to wait for the presser.

Alex is 28; he’s been playing in the NHL for six years now, and the four before that he spent with an AHL team in Illinois. He knows how to handle the press, which really means that he knows what answers they want to hear.

“This is a good franchise, and I think their record proves that. I’m impressed with their performance on the ice and their conduct off of it. I’m honored to be such an integral part of the Aces’ success.”

“But is it hard to adjust, especially on such short notice?”

“Of course. Of course it’s difficult. It’s a big adjustment to make. But that’s part of the game, and I’m excited about the opportunity to play with these guys.”

He gets out after Mäkinen and Parson have wrapped up, but they’ve both waited for him with an invitation to a team dinner at Chaz’s place. Alex declines, though it’s not actually as easy a decision as he might have thought.

It’s funny, he thinks to himself as he throws his gear into the back of a taxi, but he might actually have meant what he said to the paps.

/////

The days turn into weeks, and Alex settles on an apartment ten minutes from the dome—it was recommended to him by some Aces employee whose name and job description Alex has already forgotten. It’s bigger than his and Elliott’s old condo, with an open floor plan and three bedrooms. Nobody mentioned to him that an identical apartment two floors up houses three of the unmarried Aces, but he finds out when they hammer on his door at seven PM and drag him upstairs for burgers cooked out on their balcony.

They live in a nice area, though everything about the ninth story view he observes while leaning against the iron railing next to Mäkinen is different than his home in Missouri. Everything is louder, more vibrant, and even if he’s not situated in the middle of Vegas Strip, it sends a pang of homesickness through him.

Mäkinen shoves at his shoulder and points south, towards the flashing lights of the Strip.

“Do not go here,” he says, accent thick, and Alex struggles to remember where his roommates said Mäkinen is from—Finland, he thinks. Somewhere in Europe. “Is all tourists. The good bars are in downtown,” and now Mäkinen points over to the east, across the intersecting interstates, “Good food, less tourist, girls have, ah….standards.”

Alex laughs. “No worries there, man.”

Mäkinen shakes his head, lips pursed. “All tourists. Very trashy.”

Richards leans in on Alex’s other side, scoffing. “Come on, Seb, tourists are fifty percent of our audience, you can’t fuckin hate on them.”

“Yes, I can,” Mäkinen grouches, and he spits his mouthful of Miller Lite over the side.

“That’s disgusting, dude! There’s a sidewalk down there!”

“All tourists; they can deal.”

“With your nasty fucking backwash on their faces?” Richards says in exasperation.

“Do not insult me! I report you.”

“Yeah, Richie, aren’t you, like, sixteen?” Alex gestures at Richards’ bottle with his own.

“Shut up, old man.” He takes a swig before muttering, “And I’m almost twenty, thanks.”

/////

Alex flies back to St. Louis three and a half weeks after he first left. His three hour flight takes off at 11 PM Thursday and lands at 12 AM Friday because the world is a fucked up kind of place, and he’s too worked up to sleep on the plane.

It’s the last day of school before Christmas break. Elliott still has to go in the next day, which means Alex takes a cab to their—to _Elliott’s_ apartment. He’s already fighting the urge to break down by the time he reaches the bedroom, dropping his overnight bag and kicking off his shoes before crawling under the covers.

Elliott stirs, his eyelids fluttering open.

“Alex?”

“Hey, babe.”

Any hope Alex has that his boyfriend won’t be able to tell he’s crying goes out the window when Elliott cups his chin and draws him into a gentle kiss. His thumb wipes at Alex’s cheek, brushing away tears.

Thankfully, Elliott turns over and goes back to sleep moments later, pulling Alex’s arms around his torso and one of Alex’s long legs between his knees.

It’s warm underneath the down comforter, but Alex falls asleep shaking.

/////

The next day, he oversees the moving van that he’s hired to take his shit to Vegas. It’s not a ton of stuff, but his new apartment didn’t come with much, so anything will make a difference. They’re wrapping up when Elliott gets back from work around 5 o’clock, and he kisses Alex on the cheek before heading inside to put away his bookbag.

The rest of the day is slow, which Alex is grateful for, but he’s put off by how little they’re talking. Elliott grades his students’ exams with his feet kicked up in Alex’s lap, and later he presses their shoulders together when he turns on the television, but altogether it’s underwhelming.

Not that Alex had expected some kind of teary-eyed confession of true love or, like, really hot celebratory sex, or something—well, okay, that’s not true. He totally expected at _least_ one of those things. But he isn’t exactly mad about being wrong. Maybe it’d been dumb to think that this visit would be anything other than routine, he tells himself.

He wakes up Saturday morning alone and tangled in sheets. He peels himself out of bed, pulling on a sweater as he goes into the kitchen, because Missouri’s winters are actually cold, unlike the fucking desert he lives in now. Elliott is hunched into himself at the breakfast table, a cup of coffee in his hands and a sort of blank expression on his face.

“Everything okay?” Alex asks quietly as he pulls out a chair to sit in.

Elliott starts a bit, and a smile spreads across his face but doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m fine. Sorry.”

“Is something on your mind?”

“Yeah,” Elliott sighs, rubbing his thumbs up and down the coffee cup. “Sorry. I didn’t really want to bring it up, but. Yeah.”

“Hey,” Alex reaches for one of Elliott’s hands and pries it off the mug, taking it into both of his. “You know you can talk to me.”

“I—okay. You know how my mom had that cancer scare last year?” he says, everything drawn out. At the sight of Alex’s expression, he hurries to say, “It’s not back, don’t worry. It’s just—I don’t want to live that far away from her when everything’s so uncertain. So I don’t think I’m gonna move to Vegas with you.”

It takes a few moments to process this, and Alex hopes his mouth says something coherent because his brain is doing him no favors.

“It’s not an easy decision, okay?” Elliott says, and the choked out syllables make Alex feel guilty as hell—guilty for wanting Elliott with him, guilty for forcing him to choose, guilty for getting traded in the first place. “I just can’t give up—fuck, as much as I complain about my family, I can’t leave them.”

Alex realizes he's clenching his fingers too tightly around Elliott’s own and relaxes with an unsteady exhale.

Elliott watches him, eyes sad. Alex knows he has to speak next.

“I understand,” he says, finally, because it's true. “And I'm fucking sorry you’ve gotta pick in the first place.”

Elliott grunts and nods, using his free hand to wipe at his eyes.

“But I'm willing to wait. I'm willing to try long distance. I play fucking professional hockey, I can drop money on excessive plane tickets and shit like that. We’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Elliott breathes. “We’ll be fine.”

/////

Since the Aces traded their second string goalie to the Blues, Alex is currently their only option, which means he has to get back to Vegas before their Tuesday game. Elliott drives him to the airport, and their kiss in the front seat of his car is long and sweet.

“I’ll fly you out after Christmas, okay?”

“Yeah,” Elliott says. “We’ll make it work.”

/////

Alex loves Vegas. He hadn’t really planned on loving it, since he isn’t big on flashy lights and shitty bars owned by C-list celebrities, but a month in, he realizes he doesn’t actually want to leave. He loves the transient vibes, the flow of people, the overwhelming presence of _shit happening_.  

He stays away from most nightlife—not because he’s opposed to the concept itself. Alex doesn’t drink much because his body is a temple to himself, and he doesn’t fuck around because he has a long distance boyfriend, but he lets himself grin widely at his teammates as they do all of these things and more.

He is, all at once, one of the most disciplined and most laid back people on the team. And he’s cool with that, in the same way that he’s cool with most things.

They win four of their next five games, and it feels fucking amazing to know that he’s the reason for it—it may be a fucking terrible way to think about a team, but if he’s being honest, Alex knows that all he has to do is keep the puck out of the net and Parson will do the rest.

Parson is weird. All the guys know it, and they mock him constantly for the portrait the media paints of him—just another arrogant asshole who’s inordinately good at smacking rubber with a stick—but the team knows that’s not the whole picture. He has moods, Richie confides in Alex one night. Weird moods where he just sits back and watches all the younger players dicking around at whatever venue they’d decided to take over with a faraway look on his face.

“We call it Step-Dad Mode,” Richards giggles, and Alex makes a note to fetch Richie a glass of water before he can get his underage hands on more alcohol. “‘Cause, like, he parties with us and shit, so he’s not full-on _dad_ , but he’s so damn _fatherly_ sometimes! Like he just sits around lookin fuckin proud or some shit.”

“Nah,” Hackman cuts in, “It’s like fuckin nostalgia, not pride, Dickie. Like Parse’s remembering the good old days.”

“Whatever,” Richie huffs. “He’s a weirdo, one way or the other.”

“Old man in a hot bod.”

“Just like _you_ , y’fuckin geezer.”

“Like me?” Alex asks, amused.

“Yeah,” Richie says, stifling a belch, “except you actually _are_ old.”

/////

Parson goes out with the team whenever he’s invited (which is always), but as far as Alex can tell, he doesn’t initiate all too often. He and Jeff must’ve been close, though, because when word gets around that Jeff is gonna fly in for New Year’s, Parse is the one that opens up his place for a team party.

Alex finds Parse outside the locker room the day after the invitation circulates.

Parse grins at him, eyebrows raised like it’s a challenge.

“You coming?”

“Nah, I’ve got a friend coming in for New Year’s. Probably gonna be busy.”

Now Parse is really smirking, and cuts his eyes at Alex. “Ohh, a friend, hm? Bring her, come on; most of the guys are bringing dates.”

“It—uh, no, my friend’s a dude, sorry,” Alex says, all at once.

He’s thought about coming out, thought about just sitting everybody down with a powerpoint slide that screams I’M GAY in 200 point font, but that’s never been go-to move. He always kind of lived out of the closet and let people make their own conclusions. He trusts Parson, but he isn’t going to announce anything on an impulse.

“Then bring him,” Kent says, and Alex can’t tell if he’s figured him out or if he’s just playing it up. “The more the merrier, Fitz.”

“I’ll ask him and get back to you.”

/////

Elliott’s flight is delayed due to bad weather in Dallas, so his two night stay is cut down into one and a half nights. Alex sits up watching TV to keep himself awake until he gets the notification that Elliott’s flight has finally taken off. He drives to McCarran at one in the morning, keeping an eye out for people who might have gotten their New Year’s Eve partying started a night early.

They’re both exhausted and ready to crash when they eventually greet one another. Elliott’s especially tired, since he’s to change two time zones, so Alex doesn’t think twice about the quick hug and car ride spent in relative silence.

/////

Elliott seems distracted the next afternoon, and shakes his head quickly when Alex brings up Kent’s party.

“Not feeling it tonight,” he says. Alex isn’t surprised, even if he’s a bit disappointed that Elliott doesn’t get to meet all the guys Alex has probably been talking about non-stop whenever they get a chance to Facetime.

“Hey, that’s fine,” is what he says out loud, running a hand up Elliott’s arm. “I’m sure we can occupy ourselves.”

Elliott meets Alex for the kiss but pulls away after maybe fifteen seconds, tops. Alex lets out an absolutely embarrassing noise, but he’s a little bit horny, okay? It’s been awhile.

“Sorry,” Elliott mumbles, averting his eyes.

Guilt hits Alex, and he sits up, pulling Elliott against his side.

“No, don’t be. If you’re not feeling it, it’s okay.”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence for a little while, staring out the wide glass sliding doors to his balcony at the city unfolding before them.

Finally, Elliott sighs, and Alex knows what’s coming.

“I can't—I can't do this, Alex,” Elliott says, quiet.

Alex waits, more because he can’t trust himself to speak than because he wants Elliott to continue.

“You know that I have to—to be where I am. Not just that I can’t leave my city,” and that hurts, okay, even though it shouldn’t, “but I can't be tied down.”

“It worked when I was around,” Alex says, and even as he says it he knows it’s not fair. “You didn’t—you were fine with us when we were close.”

“Yeah, well,” Elliott bites out, pushing away so that he’s facing Alex, “I need to invest myself in people that don’t live a full 24 hours of road away, okay? I can’t stop looking for people—I can’t just be _alone_ all the time.”

“You’re not alone,” Alex says, sadly. “You have me.”

“Alex,” Elliott says, and it’s like he’s talking to one of his troubled students, which isn’t completely uncalled for, “I _don’t_ have you. All the people you talk about—Richards and Hackman and Parson—fucking _Kent Parson_ , come on, man—they have you, not me.”

And he’s right, on one level, because distance is a fucking bitch to deal with, and almost two months of time spent outside each others’ circles does mean that conversation is more difficult. But on another level, on a completely different field of existence, Alex knows that the guys here don’t know him the way Elliott does. They can’t, honestly, and not just because they aren’t into dick or aren’t into him or whatever; Alex _loves_ Elliott, and he says as much out loud.

“Look. I don’t—I don’t _not love you._ I just don't—I can’t be tied down.”

“Okay,” Alex says, and feels himself giving up, his voice wavering. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you think you need me, but you don’t, okay? You gotta look out for yourself. You gotta be your own person.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you…are you okay?” Elliott catches his left hand and holds onto it. “I don’t want you to think this is about anything you did.”

Alex grunts. “I know. The distance. It’s hard for me, too.”

Elliott sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

/////

Elliott goes to prepare for bed after the clock hits midnight, which is fine, because it must already feel like two o’clock for him. He sleeps in Alex’s bed again, which is also fine, since Alex hasn’t gotten around to furnishing the guest bedrooms with more than just his exercise equipment.

Alex is still sacked out on the couch, staring at the last sparks of the fireworks falling over the city and feeling bad for himself when his phone buzzes.

 **Kent Parson** 12:49  
so i guess your friend didnt wanna slum it w your team huh

 **Alex Fitzpatrick** 12:51  
Yeah, sorry I didn’t let you know

 **Kent Parson** 12:51  
no worries. hope ur having fun ;)

 **Alex Fitzpatrick** 12:52  
Really, cap? Really

 **Kent Parson** 12:58  
ha get used to it fitzy

Alex snorts at the nickname and tosses his phone onto his ottoman. He should probably get some sleep. He’s gotta drive Elliott to the airport tomorrow, anyway.

/////

It’s pretty easy to be mad at Elliott right up until he hugs Alex, kisses his cheek, and drags his rolling suitcase where Alex can’t follow.

The drive home is where everything starts to hit him for real, and by the time he slams the door to his apartment he’s breathing heavily, like if he huffs and puffs enough he can actually stop himself from crying.

His phone vibrates with a text, and the tiniest sliver of his erratically beating heart hopes it’s Elliott, hopes he’s stuck in Vegas and Alex can plead his case, get them back together or something—

 **Kent Parson** 11:17  
hey tiger  
when does ur friend leave

 **Alex Fitzpatrick** 11:17  
Just dropped him off at the airport.  
Why?

 **Kent Parson** 11:21  
hold on i’m just gonna

Kent calls two minutes later.

“Hey, Fitz,” Parse says, his voice almost laughing.

“Sup,” Alex says shortly.

“Dude, you good?”

“Fine.”

“Sure,” Parse says, thankfully moving on. “Wanna meet for lunch? Gordon and Steve-O just cancelled on me like the pieces of shit that they are.”

“Let me see if I’ve got anything planned.” He doesn’t. He knows that. He just needs time to think, because his captain has suddenly become a little bit too interested in his life.

“No problem,” Parse says easily, “It’s cool if you’re busy.”

“I’m good to go, actually. Where do you want to meet?”

“How ‘bout I pick you up? You’re in the same building as Sebs and his crew, yeah?”

“I am, yeah.”

“Alright, dude. I’ll be there at, like, twelve thirty.”

/////

Alex is a grown-ass man, so he cries for ten minutes, calls his sister (who doesn’t pick up), cries to her voicemail, lies in bed for another fifteen minutes, and takes a shower. He might have cried in the shower, too. That’s besides the point.

Now he’s fresh faced and standing in front of his closet, trying to pick something to wear to some random place Parson hadn’t cared to name. After about fifteen seconds of thought, Alex decides that today, comfort trumps virtually every social standard.

He hopes Parson doesn’t take him someplace that frowns upon worn out jeans.

He hears the knock on the door while he’s trying to shove his feet into his boots without untying the laces. It isn’t really working.

“Come in!”

Parse must not hear him, because he knocks again, harder this time. Alex gives one last shove into the shoe before jogging to the door.

Parse greets him with a, “Hey, dude,” and his eyes flit over Alex’s wardrobe.

“Do I need to wear something else? I wasn’t sure—”

“No, no. You’re good.” Parse coughs awkwardly. “Let’s go.”

“Hold on, let me—” Alex grabs his wallet off the table in the foyer and cuts off the lights. “Alright, we’re good.”

Parse nods and leads the way out.

/////

This is his first time hanging out with any of the guys one-on-one that isn’t somehow related to hockey, and of course it’s with the league MVP, slouching in a corner booth at a small Italian restaurant beneath a strip mall laundromat—the kind of place you only find by accident.

As far as conversations go, it isn’t nearly so bad as Alex might have expected. They mostly talk hockey, Parse asking questions about his years in the AHL and then about the Blues, which leads them into talking about St. Louis itself.

“I mean, okay, the Arch is fine,” Alex says, flipping his menu closed. “Like, you go up in it once and the view is okay, right? But then you feel the steel, like, bending and swaying in the wind, and you fold yourself into that tiny fucking elevator and get your feet on solid ground as soon as you possibly can.”

“So, when you say it’s fine, you really mean it fucking sucks.”

“Exactly! You just gotta do it once.”

“Like LSD?”

That shocks a laugh out of Alex. “Yeah, no, I don’t think so. Not like LSD.”

Parse smirks at him. “I’m joking. Don’t worry, I’m not exactly friends with drug culture.”

Alex nods in response. He’s heard the stories about Parson and Zimmerman, although that feels like it had happened to someone in another universe, not to the suave blonde guy sitting across from him.

The waitress comes by and they order, Parse’s lip curling up in his trademark half-smirk when Alex asks for a sandwich called the Big Daddy Fish Filet. But fuck him, literally everything else is way off his diet.

“So,” Parse says once the waitress is gone. Alex is relieved that they’re not picking up the conversation where it left off; he doesn’t know how to talk about his new captain’s ex-best friend’s overdose seven years ago—it isn’t exactly a subject he’s had practice discussing. “You got anyone back home?”

Okay, check that. Alex is not relieved.

“No.” The lie comes easily, but it isn’t a lie anymore, not in the way it might have been for the past three years, and right now that hurts worse than risking the truth. “Well—no. Not as of, like, yesterday.”

“Oh, shit, sorry, dude,” Parse said, looking genuinely apologetic. “I’m probably crossing a metric shit ton of boundaries right now, and you don’t have to answer, but—was it the guy who was staying with you?”

“Um,” and fuck, Alex still hasn’t had time to decide on this, but Parse is less of a dick than he appeared to be when Alex was playing against him, so why not? Better now than in six months, Alex tells himself. “Yeah. He broke up with me.”

An odd expression crosses Parse’s face, but it quickly morphs into the same sympathetic look as before.

“How long were you dating?”

“Little over two years, I guess.”

Parse winces. “I’m sorry. Fucking sucks, dude.”

“Yeah. It’s just, y’know, long distance and shit, right?” Alex leans back from the table, running a hand through his dark curls. His hair’s getting long, almost long enough to pull back. “It’s not like it doesn’t make sense or anything, it just hurts.”

Parse grunts in agreement.

“Yeah. Makes you wonder if hockey’s worth it. Like, to give up everything just to, I don’t know, skate in circles and have cameras shoved in your face. Sometimes I just—” He cuts himself off, opens his mouth as if to continue, then shakes his head and grabs for his wine glass.

“I mean, I do like it,” Alex says, eyes trained on the dark wood of the table, “Obviously. It’s what I’m best at. At this point I haven’t really got other options."

“You’re telling me, kid,” Parse huffs.

“Kid? I’m fucking older than you, Parson.”

“Whatever,” Parse smirks, and here they are, back to normal, like nobody has just come out of the closet or confessed their deepest doubts about the career they’ve sold their lives to. “I’m making five times as much as you."

“What the hell? You can't fucking say that, you asshole,” Alex sputters, laughing.

Parse shrugs, easy grin still in place, grey-green eyes smiling more than his mouth allows, and Alex feels a low swoop in his stomach, one which he automatically beats down without mercy. Because Alex is single, and Alex is gay, but Alex isn’t fucking stupid enough to let himself rebound by falling for the guy with everything—the captain of his new hockey team in Las fucking Vegas.

He’s always tried to keep his worlds separate—one sphere for his hockey career, and another his sister, for his boyfriend and their shared apartment, his group of friends that he'd met through Elliot. That’d been easy enough in St. Louis; he’d done his job, packed his bag, and gone home, never lying or compartmentalizing emotions, but not sharing more than he really wanted to.

It’s got to work in Vegas, too.

 

 

**CHAPTER 2**

If Kent had thought it wouldn’t come up again, that Fitz would tell him he was into dudes and then they’d both move on with their lives, he was dead wrong.

He’s been in the NHL for going on seven years now, and he’s been on skates ever since he could walk, so Kent _knows_ locker room culture. Most of it’s harmless, and the not-so-harmless chirps are generally made in good humor, so he’s always let them go. He isn’t a total ass; he’ll tell people to cut it out if they cross certain lines, but his privacy comes first, so normally he just tunes out the offensive chatter.

Fitzpatrick, it turns out, isn’t much like Kent.

First off, he’s pretty laid back, but he’s wicked smart and when he chirps, he fucking _drags_ people, but he uses this tone of voice that let’s you know he’s taking this about as seriously as Dickie takes their diet plan—that is to say, not at all.

Second, Fitzy doesn’t fucking care what you think of him, or what you say to him, probably because he’s an arrogant bastard with no sense of shame. And, like, Kent’s an asshole sometimes, but he’s also pretty set on making people like him.

But there’s a third category that divides Fitz from Kent, one that centers on his eyes snapping up to whoever’s talking shit and his voice is riding the line between playful conversation and deadly serious lecture.

Parson notices it the first time when Gordon tosses out a derogatory comment about one of his linemate’s masculinity, and Fitz’s head whips around.

“—if you could just pull your head out of your vagina, maybe we could—”

“Hey, cut that shit out!”

Gordon raises his eyebrows. “What’s up, Fitz? Never heard of friendly banter?”

“Of course I have, you dumb fuck, but it’s not friendly to an entire oppressed demographic, dude.”

“Yeah, Gordo, listen to the man,” someone calls out.

“You were laughing, asshat,” Fitz says easily, “get off your high horse.”

Gordon has the decency to look ashamed, but Kent is out of the locker room before he can hear what happens next.

And it’s not like it’s a one-time thing, either. Shit like that keeps happening; someone makes a vaguely (or acutely—it’s hockey, after all) offensive comment, and Fitz calls them out: maybe by humming an unhappy note, maybe by laughing along and then interjecting with a joke that paraphrases the first one to such an extreme that everyone gets uncomfortable.

Kent stays out of it, really, until Steven Bouchard mutters something to him about politically correct liberals invading their space and killing their fun.

“Steve-O, my man,” Kent sighs, turning to his friend as he towels off his hair, “If the fun can’t happen without general prejudice, maybe we should be reevaluating our senses humor.”

Bouchard huffs. “Shit, you’re starting to sound like Fitzy.”

“Probably not a bad thing,” Kent mutters, and he slings his bag over his shoulder and exits the locker room.

/////

Regardless of the impact Fitz is having on team dynamic, he’s doing a hell of a thing for the Aces’ record. Chaz’s injury had fucked them up something major. Their D-men are good, obviously, because they’re a good fucking team, but they can’t stop everything from reaching a green goalie. Fitz is on fire, doing even better than he had been in St. Louis, his goals against average dropping down below two per game.

And Kent can see the difference in the team, once they get out of their losing streak and start to even out with other playoff contenders. He might tell the reporters that it’s still too far off to say one way or the other, but on the ice, Kent knows he’s got a winning team.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d relied on Jeff until he was gone, shipping off to the east like he hadn’t been any more important than Gibby; like he hadn’t built the Aces organization from the inside; like he hadn’t taken Kent under his wing when Kent was a rookie and helped him become somebody that could actually lead the team.

Jeff had stayed in Kent’s apartment when he was visiting, and it was so, _so_ good to not be alone. He’d showed Kent pictures of his kids, Sophia and Josie, playing in the snow in St. Louis, told him about finding Josie a kindergarten, one that met in a church basement three blocks from their new townhouse. Kent felt his heart breaking a little.

“They start school in a week, and honestly, I think she’s excited,” Jeff had said, looking fondly at the little girl on his phone screen, her pigtails sticking out under her hat. “Gloria’s parents are gonna come visit so that we can get properly moved in. I think they’re glad to have their grandkids back within driving distance, and I can’t blame them, either.”

Kent had tried to nod, but Jeff must’ve noticed he wasn’t doing well, because he shut off his phone and slid it into his pocket.

“How is everything here? I know your record’s up, but how are you?”

“I’m okay,” and Kent hadn’t thought he could get any more honest than that. “I miss my liney.”

Jeff had nodded and taken a sip of his water, waiting.

“Fitzpatrick is fucking good, though, so that’s a nice change,” Kent said, because it was easier than admitting he’s been feeling a bit lost. Jeff must’ve understood, because the look he gave Kent pinned him in place.

“You know you can call me anytime, right, kid?” Jeff had said softly.

Kent doesn’t know much about being a good dad, and he sure as _hell_ doesn’t know what it’s like to have one, but he imagines that Jeff’s girls are lucky to have him.

“Yeah—yeah, I know.”

/////

They go on the road again after the New Year begins, playing the Sharks and the Ducks in back-to-back games and the Kings two days later.

Anaheim is tough game, tougher than it ought to be—Scotty shakes his gloves off in the third when Perry slashes Kent, and Kent, well. He’d be grateful, except he really can’t afford to lose his right winger. It’s still 0-0, it can still go either way. The refs send Scotty to the box, and Perry fucking _laughs_ , tapping at Kent’s laces like they’re in on some joke. He grits his teeth and keeps skating.

They go to overtime, and it’s _beyond_ frustrating, because Kent’s tired and he’s overplayed but he’s their best shot at winning this, so of course it makes perfect sense when Mäkinen’s shot slips under Andersen’s guards twenty seconds after he vaults onto the ice.

The Aces win 1-0, and it’s a relief, of course it is, but it’s also pretty damn discouraging to spend an entire game watching the puck bounce back at you, so Kent isn’t exactly in the mood for drinks afterward.

He doesn’t decide to go until he turns around and sees Dickie and Sebs reenacting Sebs’ goal across the locker room for Fitz, who’s grinning up at them from his place on the bench.

“And then he just goes—” Dickie over-exaggerates Sebs’ feint, twisting himself around in slow motion as Sebs drops low to impersonate Andersen, “—and he goes— _FSSHH_ —and it just fuckin passes under like—”

Fitz is sputtering with laughter as Sebs pantomimes Andersen’s slide back into the net, and Dickie falls down onto the bench beside him and loops an arm around Fitz’s neck.

They’re all laughing, and Kent is suddenly hit by a wave of guilt that Fitz is getting along best with the younger players, that he’s connecting more with people that don’t seem to belong to the Aces the same way Kent or Steve-O or Gordon do. And maybe that’s not completely his fault—they all seem pretty natural together, but Kent can’t help but remember Jeff going out of his way to welcome people to the team. And _he_ hadn’t even had the C.

/////

Kent just orders water at the bar, which means he’ll be chirped mercilessly for the rest of the night, but at some point in the past few years he became the kind of guy who actually listened to his dieticians, which—okay, that’s something to analyze later, he decides.

He’s keeping a particular eye out for Fitz, so Kent’s grateful when he drops into the seat next to him without prompting.

“Good work tonight,” he says without thinking, leaning in a bit so that it’s just the two of them in this conversation. ‘Good work’ is a fucking understatement, but Fitz smiles anyway and waves a dismissive hand.

“What I do doesn’t matter without the rest of the team,” Fitzy tells him, which is complete bullshit.

“Hey, that works the other way around, too, dude,” Kent says, but this whole interaction is a little too sincere for him, so he tacks on, “Not that shutting out the Ducks is anything to be proud of.”

“Hey,” Fitz splutters, indignant, “I didn’t see you contributing, y’motherfucking freeloader.”

Kent raises his hands to feign innocence.

“Whoa there, buddy, let’s not get carried away. I lead from behind.”

Fitz arches a dark eyebrow, but he just says, “Unlike Scotty, who leads from the box.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna have a talk with him about that.”

Fitz nods, taking a sip of some nasty local beer he’s drinking, and Kent feels the guilt from earlier weigh on him again. He tries to think of something to say that doesn’t sound like he’s just trying to make conversation, something that isn’t straight out of a reporter’s notebook, that isn’t about the transition or the change or his new team—

“How’s it been without Jeff?” Fitz asks without preamble, setting his bottle down on a coaster, and Kent almost laughs.

“Fine,” he says automatically, but Fitz looks like he wants more than that, so he continues, “Not gonna lie, it’s a little weird; Jeff’s been an Ace since before any of our time. He was kinda like team dad.”

“Big shoes to fill, I guess,” Fitz observes.

“For you or for me?” Kent asks, because Fitz could really mean either.

“Well, let’s just say I’m not the one the rookies literally call step-dad.”

Kent chokes on his water.

“What?! Who calls me that?”

“Heard it from Richards first.”

“Of course it’s Li’l Dickie; fucking figures.”

He must look more annoyed than he actually is, because Fitz nudges him with a shoulder and says, “Hey, I think it’s a compliment. Kinda out there and definitely uncomfortable, but at least it means they look up to you, eh?”

“Sure,” Kent agrees.

/////

He calls Jeff the next day and tells him, partially because it’s funny and mostly because Kent needs to hear his voice.

Jeff cracks up, which is great, but then Kent can hear him telling someone on the other end of the line that Kent’s the Aces’ lousy step-dad, and amidst the following sounds of laughter, the phone gets passed to someone else and—oh, okay, now David Backes is chirping him over the line, offering to give Kent tips and pointers on actually being a decent captain, which is fucking ironic.

Kent ignores this and tells Backes to let him know when they all realize Jeff’s the dad that walked to Seven-Eleven for cigarettes and never came back, which has really stopped being funny by the time it’s been repeated to every fucking Blues player in the vicinity. Once Jeff is back on the other end, Kent’s honestly ready to be off the phone.

He ends the call as soon as he can.

/////

Kent is pissed off.

It’s the Falconers’ first visit to Vegas since Jack signed with them last spring, and it’s only the second time Kent will be on the ice with Jack since the draft. It’s been a long time coming, made longer by the fact that they’re in different conferences.

And as if he wasn’t already a sack of nerves contained in human flesh, Kent has to go and strain his fucking ankle in practice the day before. Coach Yates had been less than impressed, but he helped Kent convince the team doctors to let him play on it, so long as it’s taped it to hell and back and he takes the appropriate amount of painkillers.

Even with his ice time cut by fifty percent, Kent does well. He manages to win the faceoff at the beginning of the second period, chipping it to Gordo, who makes what should be a stellar pass back to Kent, if it wasn’t for fucking Zimmerman and his complete knowledge of Kent's _everything_.

So, yeah, Kent’s pissed off.

His only consolation is that Jack doesn’t seem particularly happy, either. But then, Jack hasn’t seemed all that happy around Kent since the draft. It’s high time they had a chance to talk all that out.

Although maybe not right at this moment, Kent reminds himself, as Fitz blocks Jack’s shot and Steve-O collects it from behind the net. There’s always time after the game.

/////

Except Jack is fucking _nowhere_ ; he’s not in the visitors locker room, not in the hallways, not texting back. And it’s not one of his old moody things, obviously, because the Falcs _won_. Which is fucking brilliant, of course, except for how it means that Kent lost. He’s doing his best to not be quite so angry, but his best has never been good enough, has it?

He barely stops himself from stomping his way back into the home locker room like a toddler, forcing himself to pause and breathe. Once he makes it under the hot water of the shower, everyone else has cleared the area. He rinses and dries himself, then goes back to his caddy and begins to organize his stuff.

“Parse?” Fitz sticks his head around the door. “You alright, dude?”

“Fine,” Kent snaps.

“Uh-huh. Wanna get dinner?”

Kent shrugs an undershirt on, muffling his response.

“What’s that?”

“I said I don’t really feel like a night out on the town, Fitzy.” Kent doesn’t even try to keep the bite out of his words.

“Alright, well, we can just eat at mine, then.”

Kent looks at him suspiciously. Nobody is this nice. Like, all of his teammates care about him, but hockey bros are notoriously a little lacking when it comes to social empathy. Finally, he surprises himself by saying, “Okay.”

Fitz perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you there.”

“Alright, cool! What do you want to eat?”

“Couldn’t give less of a shit, honestly.”

/////

Fitz apparently takes his culinary freedom to heart, because he just sets Kent loose in his kitchen and microwaves a few cuts of flank steak.

They don’t talk about the game, or about Jack, which only serves to indicate exactly how worked up Kent must have seemed about the whole thing. Fitz is fixing Kent a protein shake when his phone rings. He lets it go to voicemail, which is odd enough, but when it starts ringing again—the same mellow tune as before—and Fitz still doesn’t go to answer it, Kent clears his throat in question.

“Sorry,” Fitz says, distracted by the chocolate protein powder he’s scooping a little too liberally into Kent’s water bottle, “that’s Elliott.”

“Your ex?”

“Yeah. We check in, like, once a week.”

Kent leans his chin down on his forearms, watching Fitz from the breakfast bar. The phone has finally stopped ringing.

“Not gonna lie, that’s a little weird.”

Fitz huffs a laugh. “You’re telling me. I thought it was a decent idea at first, you know? Like, easing out of a relationship, trying to stay friends. Turns out it doesn’t really work that way.”

“Better than just ending contact altogether,” Kent says, and he hopes it doesn’t come out bitter. The last thing he needs is to talk about Zimms right now. Thankfully, Fitz doesn’t seem to pick up on it.

“Yeah, for sure, unless your dick of an ex-boyfriend doesn’t know how to act like you’re _not dating_ _anymore_ ,” Fitz says, the last bit coming out strained as he shakes the mixture a little more violently than necessary. He looks a little crazed, sleeves stretched thin over his straining muscles and unruly hair flopping around. This is probably why he keeps it in a headband during games.

“What do you mean? Like, what’s he doing?”

“You wanna know what he’s doing?” Fitz asks, slamming the plastic container down dramatically.

“Uh, y—”

“He’s like, ‘Oh, _Alex_ ,’” and here Fitz swoons theatrically, grabbing at his too-tight T-shirt in anguish, “‘I miss you _so much_ , Alex, _nothing’s_ the same without you here! Remember that one time you bought me a _fucking King sized bed_? Well, sex just isn’t the same without you in it!’”

Kent can’t help his grin, so the effect is probably lost when he says, “That’s fucked up, man, I’m sorry.”

Fitz waves a hand in over-exaggerated dismissal.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure you are.”

“Elliott sounds like a douchebag, dude,” Kent observes.

Fitz’s brow furrows at that, and he shifts out of whatever role he was playing.

“Well,” he says, drawing out the word, “I don’t know about that. He’s just—not good at being tied down, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, slowly, “which kinda makes him a dick.”

“No, I don’t think so. Like, do I wish he was chill with long distance? Yeah, of course. But it’s kind of asking a lot of him, especially since he takes all that ‘Living in the Moment’ shit to heart. Me moving isn’t his fault, really.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Kent speaks up again.

“Does he honestly tell you about his hook-ups? Because _that’s_ —”

“A douche move, yep,” Fitz grins. “He’s always been the queen of oversharing.”

“I guess that’s one word for it.”

/////

Jack doesn’t text him back all night.

He doesn’t text him back the next morning, either.

/////

The Aces are doing really well, boasting a 27-11 record after a trip to Pittsburgh, where the local (and therefore awe-inspiringly biased) sportscasters were content to ignore the fact that six of those losses came when they didn’t have a top-notch goalie.

Because everybody from the booth to the ice is exhausted from travelling, the coaches give them the optional skate the next day. And since it just so happens to coincide with their favorite rookie’s birthday, well. It’s not like the team can pass up the opportunity to get a little bit shitfaced at Chaz’s place and wish Dickie a happy twentieth lap around the sun.

Kent is more than satisfied with his part in the proceedings—he lounges between Fitzpatrick and Leslie, Gordon’s wife, on one of Chaz’s huge leather couches, watching his teammates bring Dickie a pile of absolutely useless crap. Leslie provides a running commentary, Fitz jumping in occasionally with some kind of uncivil remark.

“‘Sup, Dicks,” Scotty’s saying, and he drops a few plastic tubs of hair gel into Dickie’s lap, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag with blue painters tape circled around it. “Thought I’d help you out with your virginity problem.” He sniffs, feigning disinterest. “Couldn’t help notice your absolute lack of refinement.”

“Fuck off, Scott,” Dickie laughs, “Cap’s the one that needs this shit.”

“Hey now,” Kent protests, laughing as Fitz makes grabby hands for a tub. Richards passes it over and Fitz pulls the lid off. “My hair is fine.”

“Have you taken a poll?” Leslie quips, pitched as though he isn’t meant to hear.

“Cosmo does that for me, Mrs. Gordon,” Kent says haughtily.

Fitz is already pushing large amounts of gel into his hair, slicking back his thick curls to give himself a 1950’s greaser look. He collects the rest of the gift with a muttered and vaguely concerning, “I’ll be needing this.”

Watching him comb his large hands through his hair makes Kent’s slightly inebriated brain think rather distracting thoughts. Richards draws his attention by squawking over a box of empty mini water balloons with the word “CONDOMS” scrawled across the label in black Sharpie.

“Parse’ll be needing those once the cowlick’s gone,” Leslie says, and Dickie pulls a neon orange balloon out of the box and snaps it at him like a rubber band.

“Fuck each and every one of you,” Kent says amiably.

/////

Kent’s twenty-five, with six and a half seasons of professional hockey under his belt. He's gotten everything he really wanted, right? And if he hasn’t, so what? What’s a little personal compromise, a little loneliness, when every other wish has come true?

Sure, the only person he can remember loving happens to hate his guts, and this time it’s for actual decent reasons—it’s because Kent was callous and insensitive, it’s because he hit Jack where he knew it would hurt the most. At least, Kent reminds himself, it’s not for the same old bullshit about leaving the past behind, about how they’ve got to either act as a united front or be nothing to each other at all.

And sure, his resources for finding someone new to replace—no, to _remedy_ everything Jack had been to him are limited. But Kent is playing hockey, and that's all he's ever wanted, anyway.

/////

After the team party ends, Kent drags himself back home to his apartment. It might be the alcohol, or the proximity to attractive people that he can’t let himself have, but Kent’s restless in a way he hasn’t been for a long time. He decides that the wee hours of a Friday morning is as good a time as any to treat himself, and he heads back out after checking on Kit and changing his wardrobe.

The gay club he lands at has five stars next to its name, although the stars may just be part of the logo. It’s kind of hard to tell. Kent keeps to a corner of the bar, as he always does on these rare occasions where he actually makes it inside instead of turning on his heel and jogging back to his taxi before it pulls away.

The music is throbbing, pulsing through him in a constant hum, in sync with the lights flashing above. All the people surrounding him are radiating an energy he can’t ignore, can’t resist.

It isn’t like Kent’s ashamed of his attraction to men; he knows what he is (yeah, he’s gay, thanks very much), and he knows who he is (Kent motherfucking Parson), and he knows none of that is gonna change anytime soon. But he also can’t presume to know what the rest of his world, his bosses, even his best friends believe about people like him. He’s in a deadlock of self acceptance and self loathing, because there are two things that really ring true of Kent Parson beyond any doubt: he’s gay as shit, and his life would be a hell of a lot easier if he wasn't.

He’s brought out of his reverie when his eyes wander over the rest of the club, attention catching on a pair of sleazy looking men in ill-fitting suits, one of whom is toting a camera. The other, beady eyes searching through the crowd, holds a microphone close to his chest.

Kent goes cold, hair at the nape of his neck standing on end; this can’t happen. He can’t risk it. The low profile other hockey players can afford, especially in cities like Vegas, doesn’t really exist for Kent. He’s one of the faces of the NHL right now, and that face needs to get the fuck out of here before it gets plastered on the cover of some low-level tabloid.

He throws down a larger sum of money than necessary, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair as the bartender turns towards him with a question on his lips, and he maneuvers his way through the crowd of moving bodies towards the exit.

Kent’s almost to the door, breath short and pulse erratic, skewed out of time from the music, when he glances up to see the two vultures grinning ahead of him. One makes eye contact, pupils seeming to dilate in the dim lights. Kent turns on his heel automatically, plunging back through the masses and to the restrooms, not breaking pace until he’s inside a stall, leaning up against the door.

Then the world decides to fuck him over.

There’s a low groan from a stall nearby. At first, Kent’s brain jumps to _bathroom sex_ , which isn’t too farfetched, given his location. But then he hears a wheeze and a retching noise, and Kent’s out of his stall and knocking on doors before he gives it a second thought.

The noises come from the furthest stall, one of two larger handicapped ones. He pushes at the door, and says urgently, “Dude, you okay in there?”

A gurgled, “yeah,” followed by a wretch and a, “fuck, maybe not,” meets his ears.

“Okay, look, I need you to let me in. I just want to help.”

Another groan. Kent drops down on the ground; there’s enough space below for him to work his way underneath the door.

Once he’s slithering beneath the stall, Kent gets his first good look at the guy. He’s slouched next to the toilet, almost completely still. His face is drawn, there’s vomit on his shirt and on the toilet seat, eyelids fluttering and face deathly pale.

Kent feels a wave of nausea crash over him, and it’s only a little bit from the smell; this is too familiar, this is too much. The guy looks nothing like Jack—dark skinned, lanky, in a tank top and pink rimmed glasses—but the situation is the same.

“Hold on, I got you,” Kent breathes, cutting off every one of his emotions from the pragmatic part of his brain. This is just another play, another instance in which Kent has to step up, has to forget himself for the good of the people around him. “What happened?”

“Guy… gave me a drink,” the man coughs a couple times, spittle flying. Kent tries not to flinch. “Fuck… sorry. I dunno. What was in it.”

“Okay,” Kent says, reassuring, his voice coming out gentler than it has been in a long time. “Have you called an ambulance?”

The guy shakes his head.

“Alright, well, I’m gonna do that, okay? Just let me move you around.”

He pulls out his phone, but it dies in his hand. Kent curses—it’s late, almost three in the morning; he should have charged it before going back out.

He’s near panic when the sound of the door opening meets his ears, followed by echoing hisses.

“—swear to hell and back it was Kent Parson—”

“—thought he’d’ve come out by now.”

“Come out? Really, Jimmy?”

Kent stops moving, his brain short circuiting.

“Fuck,” the man in front of him coughs, before retching on himself and onto Kent.

That snaps Kent out of it, forcing him to gain control of every bit of himself that wants to go dead silent, that wants to hold his breath and wait, that wants to make sure his safety and his career come first.

“Okay,” Kent breathes. “Okay, you fuckin got me.”

He stands and yanks open the door.

The cameramen are standing in front of him, sans camera, since they apparently are only into privacy infringement if it stays just on this side of legality.

“Call 911,” he bites out, looking between their shocked faces. “I’m serious, this guy’s gotten fucking roofied or some shit, you gotta do it.”

The one who had held the microphone earlier scrambles for his phone, dialing while the other guy stands slack-jawed, staring at Kent.

“You, shitbag, come help me out,” Kent spits.

Between him and the pap, they get the guy propped up, uncurled, his airflow unblocked. He’s leaning back against Kent, head propped beneath Kent’s chin.

“Stay with me, man,” Kent mutters, “stay with me. Can’t sleep now.”

“’s hard,” the guy mumbles.

“I know. What’s your name?”

He mumbled something that sounds like Brandon or Brendan. Kent shakes his head.

“Okay, buddy. You’re gonna stay awake, alright? Keep your eyes open.”

“Mm,” he breathes.

/////

The ambulance comes, paramedics crowding into the stall and taking Brennan (his license says Brennan) out on a stretcher. The cameramen are answering questions, describing the scene to police.

“Sir,” an officer says, her voice reaching Kent from far away. “Did you know this man?”

“No, he was...” Kent pauses, breathing in and out, words clear in his head but sticking on his tongue. “Like that when I found him.”

“Which was when?”

“Twenty... twenty-five minutes ago. Heard retching... from a few stalls down, called out to him. He said he was in trouble.”

“I see,” the officer says, adjusting her grip on whatever clipboard she’s got clutched in her grip, “What’s your relation to the other two witnesses?”

“They were chasing me.”

She looks up at him quickly, a question on her lips.

“No, not—I’m a professional athlete... they recognized me,” he clarifies.

The officer nods, staring at Kent a little harder.

“Did he say anything else to you?”

“Uh, that some guy... bought him a drink. Hadn’t sat right. He was alone... when I got... in there.” Kent pulls his shoulders inwards, frustrated. “That’s all I got—he stopped talking. Is that all?”

“I believe so, yes,” she says. She tucks the papers into her side, eyeing him with concern. “I’ll need you to check in with the paramedics before you leave, okay?”

Kent can only nod as she guides him towards the door. They exit the back of the club into the employee parking lot, flashes of red and blue light thrown against the dark buildings.

/////

The EMTs give Kent a shock blanket and a ride to the hospital, which is probably less for his convenience and more so that they can keep an eye on him.

Seven years ago, Kent had put on his most stoic face and called it bravery; now he nods when a paramedic offers him an oxygen mask. He sits still on the padded seat, trembling hands fisted in the foil of the blanket as they drive. Seven years ago, Kent hadn’t been allowed to see Jack.

He doesn’t even try to look at Brennan.

/////

They release Kent without much drama, just make him sign some forms and point him towards a waiting room.

He sits in a corner chair, avoiding eye contact with the other visitors in the room. There’s a low buzz of conversation, of worried voices and reassurances that he doesn’t have. His hand itches to grab for the dead phone in his pocket, and eventually Kent stops fighting it.

He borrows a phone off of a teenage girl three seats away, turning his body away from her as plugs in a number he wishes he didn’t have memorized.

It rings six times before Jack’s voicemail answers.

“... _reached the voicemail box of Jack Zimmermann, please leave your name and number after the beep._ ”

Kent closes his eyes and exhales, trying to gather himself.

“Jack,” he says, face hot and sticky against the plastic phone. “Jack, God. _Jack_.

“I don’t know what to do. Please pick up,” Kent chokes on his words, pressing his free hand over his eyelids. “I know you have every right to hate me, I just can’t do this without you.”

Kent ends the call and hands it back over to the girl, mentally cursing Jack for being an arrogant bastard, trying to pull himself together. He sits back, closes his eyes, and tries to will his body into stillness.

/////

He wakes up with his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle, head resting on the back of the chair. There are more people in the waiting room with him, and the clock on the far wall reads after seven o’clock.

Kent pushes out of his seat, straightening his rumpled shirt, somehow managing to feel stiff and unsteady at the same time.

He waits in line at the desk, and his heart is hammering by the time he gets there, the rush of blood nearly deafening him to the answer to his question after he asks after Brennan.

“Mr. Tucker is in the clear. It was a combination of prescription drugs and what was probably some measure of Rohypnol, so far as we can tell. He’s had his stomach pumped; he’s sleeping now.”

“Fuck,” Kent manages, steadying himself with a hand on the edge of the desk. “Thank you.”

“We were able to get in touch with his family, but they’re up in Portland and won’t be able to come down until the weekend. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see a familiar face when he wakes up.”

Kent smiles thinly but says nothing.

/////

Brennan is propped up when Kent enters, and though he looks fairly self-aware, confusion is the dominant emotion on his face. His glasses are resting on the table near his pillows.

“So, guessing you don’t remember me,” Kent says, smirking as he swings a rolling chair around backwards before sitting in it with a thump. He rests his forearms on the back, hoping he looks casual, looks like he hasn’t just had the second worst night of his life. “I’m Kent Parson.”

“They said you found me.”

“Yeah, you were pretty far gone.”

Brennan frowns.

“I don’t remember much after I left for the bathroom. But thanks. Sorry for, y’know, all this.” He gestures to the hospital room with one unsteady hand.

Kent shakes his head quickly, but that hurts, so he stops. “It’s not a problem. Seriously, it’s the last thing you should worry about. None of this is your fault.”

Brennan’s expression communicates that he’s anything but satisfied by that, but Kent distracts him quickly. “The staff also probably think we’re dating, just as a heads up. I haven’t corrected them. I didn’t want to get barred from the room, since I’m a complete stranger.”

Brennan snorts. “Nice.”

“Yeah, it is. I live for deceit.”

Brennan’s smile is a little watery, so Kent changes the subject. They only talk a short time before a pair of young women are let into the room. They’re Brennan’s friends (“Alessandra and Jenny, good to meet you,”), and they chirp him about handling his liquor and pulling stunts to get attractive athletes to notice him. That feels a little insensitive to Kent, but Brennan laughs, so it must be normal for them.

Kent laughs along with them, and he feels better, knowing that Brennan is in good hands. He exchanges phone numbers with a wry smile, because even though he can’t accept the idea that he’s a knight in shining armor, he can at least take advantage of the fact that traumatic experiences help people skip the awkward pick-up line stage.

/////

It’s 10:30 AM when Kent gets back to his apartment, and he doesn’t even think about the fact that he’s missing optional skate before he plugs in his phone, collapses into bed and passes the fuck out.

/////

As easy as it is to fall asleep, staying asleep is another matter. Kent wakes up panting into the sheets more than once, a perfectly preserved memory of Jack Zimmermann’s chalk-white face still burned into the blackness behind his eyelids. Eventually, he gives up trying to rest, moving into the kitchen with shaky steps and sinking onto one of the stools at his breakfast bar.

He’s been to therapy for this; he’s gotten better, even. Nearly two years after Kent had found Jack closer to the grave than the draft, he’d finally broken down and asked for help. Two days ago he could’ve told anybody that the nightmares had stopped long ago, that the therapy had worked, that the meds were no longer necessary—that it was all behind him.

And now, it seems, he’s back to square one.

After half a meal and a shower long enough that the scalding hot water turns frigid, Kent lies down on his couch, turning on ESPN in the background as he checks his phone.

Jack hasn’t called, and he hasn’t texted, either. The Falcs are at home this week, with back-to-back games against the Flyers and the Capitals, so Kent allows himself to assume that Jack is just busy right now.

/////

Kent doesn’t sleep well the next night, either, so on Saturday morning, he requests exemption from on-ice practice, though he shows up for their all-team meeting and sticks around for warm-ups. Gordo runs into Kent on his way to the therapist’s office, and he asks if Kent wants to grab tacos with him and Chaz. Since Kent is as arrogant as he is self-loathing, he says yes and changes directions.

/////

Kent weasels his way out of going back to Gordo’s to see his and his wife’s new kitchen (“We got one of those fucking wine fridge under the island—I don’t know why, it’s not like Leslie and I save the wine long enough to actually need storage space for it”) in order to go back to his apartment to look over plays for tomorrow’s game against the Aeros.

For lack of a better option, Kent fights his nausea with some non-drowsy medicine he finds in the cabinet above his sink before laying out the diagrams he needs to go over during tomorrow’s team meeting. The Aeros were good this year—well, better than they had been in the past, which isn’t saying a whole lot. Kent isn’t too worried for tomorrow’s game, but he wants to be prepared for anything.

Which is why he knows he’s fucked when he jerks awake at three in the morning, the sound of sirens and his own voice choking on Jack’s name still ringing in his ears even as he looks down at the plans, a bit of drool making the ink run on the paper. Kent feels groggy, which is terrible, and has a pounding headache, which is even worse. He’d gotten more sleep slumped over on his kitchen table than he has in the past sixty hours combined.

He takes some ibuprofen, throwing out the entire bottle of whatever he’d taken the night before in his frustration. Everything fucking sucks, and anybody who passes him on the street would be able to tell, the purple under his eyes and shaking of his shoulders too much for him to hide anymore.

Kent calls Jack again.

Jack doesn’t pick up.

/////

Kent doesn’t even try to go back to sleep, instead opting to review the taped shifts his coaches email him, working through the Aeros’ lineup since they’d last played and reviewing for the game. He tries to drink a protein smoothie, but gives up after the first few gulps don’t stay down.

He drives to the rink early, swiping his keycard to get in the locker room even before the coaches have arrived. He needs to get in a better headspace after the past few days, and laces up his skates meticulously before going on the ice.

Out there, he feels like he can breathe again, skating in slow circles around the rink, feeling his feet reflexively pushing him across the ice. This is where Kent belongs; this is why Kent is captain, this is his life. He relaxes, preparing to present, visualizing the players, the referees, the fans.

His talk goes well, the coaching staff nodding in agreement as he explains the game plan, and by the time they ramble off the starting lineup, and he’s managed to forget about his nightmares.

/////

They win, no thanks to Kent. He’d spent two minutes on the ice before a stray elbow had hit him in the ear. He’s fine now, really, but by the time he’d gotten back out on the ice, he’d lost momentum, and the Aces end up winning on Scotty’s goal from the end of the first period, anyway.

Kent zones out through the post-game briefing, heading straight to the showers with his ear still ringing and eyes refusing to focus. He’s exhausted, and he really needed to get home and get to sleep.

He’s already showered and stowed his gear when the media shows up, looking for a reaction after a rivalry game. Kent figures not much attention will be directed towards him, given his minimal role in the action, but reporters are coming towards him anyway, even as he swings his bag over his shoulder and prepares to leave.

He hears himself saying some captain-ly bullshit about sportsmanship during power plays when his gaze drifts to one of the reporters standing a little further back. It takes Kent half a moment to place the face, but once he does, the reporter from the bar three nights back is obviously trying to hold back a triumphant smirk.

Panicking, Kent tries to get away, winding up his interview with some absolute shit about the Aeros being a pleasure to play against, but the camera follows him as he comes face-to-face with the reporter.

“Mr. Parson, we have evidence that you had quite a good time a few days ago,” the man says, words almost threatening; Kent doesn’t know if he’s imagining the manic glint in the man’s eye. “Anything to say about that?”

“Me and the guys met up, if that’s what you’re asking,” Kent says, doing his best impression of somebody who isn’t choking on their own tongue.

“No,” the man smirks, “It wasn’t.”

Kent pushes past him, turning heads as he elbows his way toward the door. The reporter jogs to catch up, shoving a voice recorder in his face. “We have been keeping up with the young man you were with—I’m sure it was hard on you, having to witness a second overdose—”

Kent rounds on him, frustration boiling over.

“Do you fucking think that it’s funny,” he growls into the man’s face, “to kick a man while he’s down? You’re the literal reason I hate this job; you’re the reason I can’t—” He bites down on his lip, realizing how quiet the room has become, how many cameras are turned on him, how his teammates are craning their necks to see what’s going on.

Then he looks back to the reporter’s gleeful face, thinks of all the ways this information could be released—a picture of his retreating back, a testimony from someone on the scene, a police document—and he snaps.

Kent grabs the microphone from the man’s oily hands, nearly spitting into it, “I’m fucking gay, okay? I’m sure that’s what you want to hear, and not the fact that you’re fucking with a guy who has PTS-motherfucking-D, right? Because you don’t care about the shit I’m still trying to get over, you just want the story that gets your third-tier blog on everyone’s news feed. So get the hell out of my face, and let me go home and get some goddamned sleep.”

Kent throws the recorder back at the stunned reporter and shoves his way out of the room, the fear and pain that had been coursing through his veins for days now replaced by seething rage. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone on his way out, and he’s almost surprised when he gets to his car in the parking deck next door.

/////

By the time Kent gets home, his phone has been beeping at him from the pocket of his bag in the passenger seat for a solid twenty minutes. He doesn’t bother to look at any of the notifications, just shutting off the volume and making his way to the elevators.

Kit Purrson is stretched out in front of his front door, nearly tripping Kent as he enters. Her disdainful gaze brings him back to this world, and for whatever reason, that’s all it takes to push him over the edge.

He falls back against the closed door, sinking to the ground as sobs wrack his body. He doesn’t know what he was doing; he didn’t want that to happen, didn’t want to fucking out himself to _anybody_ , let alone to a locker room full of cameras and microphones.

Sooner or later, he has to face the music—literally, if he’s talking ringtones. After a good twenty minutes or more of breaking down and then piecing himself back together, Kent grabs for his phone and looks at his notifications.

They’re extensive, to say the least. He checks his voicemails first, one of which is from his PR manager and absolute hero, Nora, who says in an exhausted yet kind sort of way that he should take the night off from any activity involving media (“Don’t even instagram pictures of Purrson, okay? Radio silence”) and to schedule a meeting with her ASAP.

Another is from his coach, who gruffly informs him the team owner is interested in a meeting and that they are “all behind you, kid, so don’t worry about that.”

His therapist, his mom, Fitzy, and Gordo have called, too, though none of them left messages. He resolves to call everyone back when he actually has a voice to talk with, and sends them all somewhat impersonal yet reassuring texts saying exactly that.

Kent might not be his own biggest fan (check that, he _definitely_ isn’t—hockey fans are terrifying, okay?), but he isn’t a huge proponent of self-torture. But tonight, he reasons, it’d be better to know exactly what’s going on in the media than to sit around and wonder. So he picks himself up off the floor, kicks off his sneakers, and collapses onto the couch to turn on the news.

The footage is everywhere—Kent grabbing the microphone from the reporter, saying loudly and clearly the words, “I’m [bleep]ing gay, okay?” before spewing shit about his mental illness. It’s disconcerting to flick through the channels and see himself from different angles, always saying the same thing, but at different levels of volume.

Most channels are similar in their approach to the story—the reporter was the straw that broke the metaphorical camel’s back, in which the straw is trauma and the camel is Hart-trophy winner Kent Parson—and each seems to be making its own point about the whole debacle. First off, he listens to a sportscaster say that it was good _Kent_ was the gay one, and not, like, some dumb rookie fresh out of the Q, because _Kent_ can take it, _Kent_ is good enough that his sexuality doesn’t really matter—

Then another analyst is pulling up old bits of tape, snippets Kent can’t even remember where he flinches at certain questions or avoids answering—all little bits of evidence that Kent’s gay, that he’s mentally ill, that he’s under far too much stress—

Then another, who says he’s setting a bad example for kids, “not because he’s a homosexual! But because he’s acting like he’s the victim here, he’s acting like talking to nosy reporters isn’t part of the job description,” and Kent wants to scream that it shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t have to feel attacked after doing his fucking job, he shouldn’t have had to hold in these secrets, these _absolutely integral parts of his human experience_ for twenty-five fucking years because, “the press is just part of the program.”

He ends up in a ball on his couch, and he’s trying not to cry again when his phone starts to ring.

Kent’s mind falters out when he saw the caller ID—no name, but it’s a number out of Rhode Island. He fumbles for the correct button.

“Hello?” He croaks, and he knows he sounds bad, but if this is who he thinks it is, then he’s fucking _fine_ with that.

“Kenny?” Jack says, and Kent’s nickname sounds exactly the way it used to.

Kent closes his eyes and breathes, trying to gather himself.

“Jack,” he says, and then he’s gone, tears leaking out between his tightly shut eyelids, face sticking to the phone. “God, _Jack_.”

“Kent—it’s okay, Kent,” Jack says, and his voice is calming in a way that makes Kent want to cry even more.

He tries to pull himself together.

“Just— _fuck_ —I’m sorry. For what I said, for the past seven years, for the way we were back then. I’m sorry I failed you, I’m sorry—”

“Kent,” Jack interrupts, a little louder than before, but still just as calm. “Are you okay?”

Kent tries to say he is, but chokes around the words. Jack understands.

“Are you safe?”

“Yes, I—I don’t know what to do, Jack. I was just… I fucking took a risk, okay, it was Dickie’s birthday, I went to a bar, the paparazzi was there—”

Jack’s grunts. Kent wonders for a second if it’s disapproval, but then realizes he doesn’t care.

“—and then I went in the bathroom, and I found—this fucking kid had gotten roofied, and he’s lying out on the floor, and I couldn’t fucking _think_ anymore, because even though it’s been years it was like looking at _you_ , Jack.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jack breathes out, and it isn’t shaky, it isn’t the voice of the glassy-eyed boy who couldn’t handle the honesty necessary to let Kent to help him: it’s Jack, as he ought to have been all along. Jack, with all the right amounts of concern and kindness and righteous anger. Kent can suddenly see the differences between who they had been and who they are now. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, I waited it out at the hospital. He’s fine.”

“But you’re not,” Jack says, like a fact. “And you haven’t been. For a long time.”

“I was better. Much better, really.”

Jack mutters something too quietly to be heard before asking, “Kent?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, Jack?” Kent’s voice conveys all the weariness he’s felt for so many years.

“For this. That this happened. I’m sorry you’re getting fucked over for doing the right thing.”

Kent grunts. “Well, that’s life, isn’t it? I’ll have to meet with PR and sort everything out. But I think I’m gonna ignore all of that until I’ve gotten some decent sleep.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty late here, too.”

“Three hour difference, right?” Kent asked, knowing the answer full well because he’s calculated it every time he’s called for the past seven years.

“Yeah. It’s almost two AM.”

“I’ll let you go then. I’m gonna take a slow day tomorrow, see if I can’t sleep better tonight.”

“I think you deserve that.”

“Glad to have your approval, Zimms.”

Kent can almost hear Jack’s smile on the other end. “You never really lost it. I hope you know that.”

“You did kind of a shitty job of showing it,” Kent sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. It’s fine. I’m gonna sleep for awhile; can I call you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Jack says. “I’ll talk to you then.”

/////

“Dude,” Gordon says, when Kent bothers to call him back the next afternoon, “What the fuck. Are you okay?”

“Nora’s probably gonna kill me for all of this, and Deadspin is having a field day, but I’m locked in my apartment eating pizza in my boxers, so I can’t complain.”

“Seriously dude,” Gordon says after a short laugh, “I cannot even imagine what’s going on in your freaky little mind right now.”

“Nothing,” Kent says, in a moment of pure honesty. “I’m trying real hard not to think at all, actually.”

“Are you at home?”

“Yeah, why?”

Kent can hear shuffling on the other end of the line; it goes static before cutting back in with a “—good to go, Scotty. Sorry, back now,” Gordon said, obviously talking to Kent again. “Me ‘n Scott thought we’d drop by for a bit, have a little liney time if that’s all good with you.”

“Sure,” Kent says, “but I don’t have any extra pizza.”

/////

They let themselves in about twenty-five minutes later, plopping down on either side of Kent where he’s slouching on the couch. Gordon puts his feet up next to Kent’s on the coffee table while Scotty passes them both a beer from the six pack he bought.

“You weren’t kidding about pizza and boxers,” Gordon snorts. “But do you really gotta be watching the news right now?”

“It’s my fifteen seconds of fame,” Kent grumbles.

Scotty barks a laugh.

“Sure, Mr. Face-of-American-Hockey. You’re hardly _ever_ on TV.”

“Gotta capitalize on this,” Gordon muses.

“Maybe start selling merchandise.”

“T-shirts, shot glasses, little gay action figures—”

“Alright, alright,” Kent says, laughing. “I get it.”

“Hey,” Scott says, chirping voice gone and replaced by something more serious. He grabs the remote and mutes the television. “You know this doesn’t change anything, right? Like, maybe now we understand you better, but we’re not gonna rethink all the stuff we _did_ know about you before, Parse.”

“Yeah,” Gordo says, jostling Kent with his shoulder, “like the fact that you’re a great hockey player, and a great captain, and a stand-up guy.”

“And a first-class asshat, too.”

“And the tiniest motherfucker on the ice.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re gonna make me cry,” Kent says, carefully avoiding making eye contact.

“But seriously, Parse,” Scotty says, allowing Kent to pretend he’s not tearing up, “we wanted you to know we have your backs before you come back into the locker room.”

“We can’t speak for the rest of the team, but I’m guessing they’re with us.”

“And if they’re not,” Scott trails off, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

“Oh, come on,” Gordo laughs, “We all know I’m gonna be the one fighting for Parse’s virtue, you little shrimp.”

“Just because you’re a motherfucking _behemoth_ —”

“God,” Parse huffs, rolling his eyes. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Well, gave handjobs to nutjobs in bathrooms, apparently.”

“Fuck,” Parse laughs, “is that what they’re saying?”

“Well, not the handjob part. That’s just implied.”

“Which,” Scotty says, turning sideways on the couch to prop his feet in Kent’s lap, “I would like to clarify.”

“I’m not dating that guy,” Kent says in exasperation, “and I didn’t hook up with him, either. I seriously met him while he was bent over the can vomiting out his entrails.”

“Do you know how he’s doing?”

“He’s fine. Texted me earlier this morning—he’s been staying with friends since he got released from the hospital.”

“Good,” Gordo grunts. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, he was cut up about outing me or some shit. Like it was his fault.” Kent shakes his head, dragging a hand over his face. “It’s just—fuck, I fell apart that night.”

“Zimmermann all over again?” Scotty asks, his voice gentle.

Kent nods before sighing and tipping his head back into the couch.

“It’s alright, man,” Gordo says, awkwardly nudging Kent with his shoulder again. “It’s gonna be alright.”

 

**CHAPTER 3**

Everything has gone to shit by the time Alex gets back from the showers. Parse has apparently just rounded on some pretentious-looking reporter guy, and Alex catches the tail end of his rant. It sounds something like, _“you don’t care about the shit I’m still trying to get over,_ ” and then a stellar roast of the guy’s network; followed by a loud, “ _get the hell out of my face, and let me go home and get some goddamned sleep!”_

The locker room rings with Parson’s words, players too stunned to answer any questions the more resilient paps are throwing their way. One reporter had thrown a damn match at the tower of lighter fluid-doused tinder Parse has apparently been sitting on, but he’s gone almost immediately, which is good, since Alex has half a mind to rip his balding head from his stooping shoulders.

Not one of the players gives an answer with any kind of substance to it, and Steven Bouchard grimly tells one woman to fuck off when she asks him something about Parse’s past antics. Alex makes eye contact with Gordo and grimaces; they’re on the same page. Gordo swings his bag over his shoulder and comes over to him.

“You hear all that?” he says gruffly.

Alex shakes his head. “Only the last bit.”

“Come with me, then.”

They leave quickly, just as Steve-O straightens up and pulls out some of his fancier vernacular to let the remaining journalists know exactly what he thinks of their profession. Alex is fairly certain none of it will make it onto Sports Center.

/////

Gordon tells Alex what Parse had said, not adding anything to it by way of opinion or analysis, just clapping him on the back and pulling out his phone as he walks away.

Alex sinks into the driver’s seat of his new Land Rover, a little bit dazed. It’s not like he’d figured he was the only queer guy on the Aces’ roster, let alone the entire NHL. He just hadn’t figured his captain, of all people, was exclusively into dudes.

Because that was the thing: nobody had really _thought_ Parse was gay, even if the fact that he _was_ gay didn’t seem all that shocking. At least, Alex wasn’t surprised—though he was probably more used to peers not being straight than most of the guys in the locker room.

Alex barely catches himself processing the suddenly all-too-real thought of _Parse wouldn’t hate sucking my dick on principle_ , but he clamps down on it with a vengeance, because now is definitely not the time. His captain just had his privacy violated, and had not only come out of the closet, but had admitted to coping with a trauma disorder—not to mention some shit about another overdose. Who fucking knew what was going on in his head?

/////

Alex calls and he wants to leave Parse a message; ask if he’s okay, tell him he can call back whenever he needs to. He thinks about telling him that he isn’t alone, that Alex is here for him, but he doesn’t. He hangs up when he gets the voice recording, because Parse already knows everything he could possibly say.

Instead, he calls his agent and leaves her a message, wrapping it up with, “If for some reason it’d be prudent for me to come out when Parson makes a statement, then so be it. Just let me know. I’d rather do it now than when some Perez Hilton wannabe outs me to the world.”

/////

There’s an odd hush at the rink the next morning, and the team meeting is called short after Coach delivers a gruff message of, “keep your mouths shut and don’t be assholes,” neglecting any sort of hockey-related talk. During the drills, everyone is on edge, somehow feeling Parse’s absence more acutely than they had two days ago when he’d sat out.

That night, Alex gets a call back from his agent saying to come in tomorrow to discuss everything further—in the end, she says, they’d leave the structure of the coming out up to Parse, since it’s his party.

He agrees, heart stuttering a little bit at the thought of seeing Parse.

/////

That night, Alex calls Elliott for the first time in three weeks. As the phone rings, he realizes it’s the first time he been the one to initiate contact.

After greeting each other, Alex gets straight to the point. “I just wanted to let you know that I might be coming out with Kent Parson when he makes a statement.”

Elliott makes a weird noise that Alex can’t quite decipher. “Like, as a couple?”

Alex snorts.

“No, just. At the same time. We’re meeting up tomorrow to figure it out.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Good. I mean, it was my suggestion. Honestly I’m more nervous about the meeting than the actual possibility of a press conference.”

“Would this possibly be because,” Elliott says, an indifferent tone taking his voice, “you are tragically in love with your captain?”

“Absolutely not,” Alex lies, and there it is, the first time he realizes he has dumb middle school crush on Kent fucking Parson is when he talks to his ex. “It’s just a weird situation.

“Would you mind telling everyone else? I don’t really have the mental capacity to talk to them.”

“Yeah, sure. They miss you a lot, Alex. Maybe call Sam sometime, let her know you’re alive? I think she’s tired of getting updates off Sports Center or something.”

/////

They meet in one of the larger conference rooms, though only a quarter of the seats are filled. Nora is already hard at work, only sparing Alex half a smile as he sits down next to his agent, Jillian, before she turns back to the papers she’s been rifling through. Parse’s agent, who Alex has yet to meet, is sitting across from her, drumming his fingers and glancing at his phone.

Parse arrives five minutes after the meeting was scheduled to begin, which normally wouldn’t have been surprising, as non-hockey-related meetings are not a priority in Parse’s books. But today seems like it's a little more than just a business meeting where you can show up fashionably late.

“Hey, Fitz,” Parse says, surprise in his voice. “What’s going on?”

“Uh,” Alex says helpfully, gesturing at the other three in the room, “ask them.”

“Okay—” Parse rolls his eyes as he drops into a chair. “—Fine. What’s going on, Alberto?”

Parse’s agent looks up at him, arching a dark eyebrow. “You never read my emails.”

“Yeah, I do!” Parson looks offended. “I mean, sometimes, at least. Mostly.”

“Just not the one that told you what the meeting was going to be about?”

“Yeah. Must’ve missed that one.”

“I swear to God,” Alberto sighs.

Nora looks up from her papers with a sympathetic expression. “I’ll do the debriefing. Kent, you gotta make some kind of statement, even if it’s just to apologize for using foul language on television. Alberto and I have a couple written up for you to choose from.”

“What’s the difference between them?”

“One’s just an apology, and the others are variations where you confirm your sexuality, your mental illness, or both. Obviously, you can look over them if you like,” she says, sliding him a few sheets of paper. “These were all attached to the email Albert sent over.”

“Alright,” Parse says, glancing down at them briefly, “I kinda expected that. But what’s Fitz doing here?”

Alex looks to Nora, expecting her to speak. After a moment, she looks up from her paperwork, a little surprised.

“This is all you, Fitzpatrick.”

“Oh,” he says, and suddenly feels a little vulnerable, a little silly for doing this at all. “Well, since I’m, uh, gay too, you know,” and Parse is opening his mouth, so Alex talks a little quicker so that he can get it all out, “we thought it’d be better if I came out at the same press conference.”

“It’d take some of the pressure off of you, Kent,” Alberto says as Parse makes like he’s going to speak again. “You wouldn’t be the only one fielding questions, and it would cut back on some of the ‘first openly gay’ bullshit we’ve seen in other leagues.”

“And,” Jillian throws in, “it would prevent something similar from happening to Alex in the future.”

“Hold on,” Parse says loudly, leaning in to get everyone’s attention. He points to Alex: “Just to rehash. You’re gay, which I knew,” he turns his finger on Alberto, “you think him coming out is good for me, and _you_ think it’d be a good preemptive move for him,” he finishes by turning to Jillian.

“Pretty much,” Nora says. “What do you think?”

“I—well, I’m not opposed to it,” Parse says, reclining to remove his cap and run a hand through his hair. “I just can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not,” Alex says simply. “I’m offering. I’d’ve done it at some point, anyway, and right now, sooner seems better than later.”

“You just didn’t wanna go first,” Parse says, grinning. “Typical.”

Alex brushes off the chirp.

“I didn’t. I wasn’t waiting for someone else to fuck up, though. I just never felt obligated—okay, not obligated, I guess. I never felt like I _wanted_ to do it until now.”

Parse nods, looking at Alex with a considering expression. Alex doesn’t know how to look away.

“Alright, good—we’re all on the same page,” Nora says, finally pushing away her other work and breaking through whatever tension has built up in the room as though it hadn’t existed in the first place. Alex relaxes, though he spares a glance at Parse as he turns towards her. His captain still has the same expression on his face, somewhere between amused and perplexed.

“—to give them what they want,” Nora is saying, “I don’t mean we should roll over and let them kick us to shit, but right now we really can’t afford to be on the media’s bad side.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be even remotely helpful,” Parse chimes in, finally shifting his gaze. “I want to clarify what’s going on, not retract anything I already said.”

“Except the cussing,” Alberto mutters.

“I mean…” Parse raises his eyebrows.

“That’s literally the only part of this that’s non-negotiable, Parson,” Nora says in exasperation.

“Fine,” he huffs, and catches Alex’s eye with a quick grin. “I’ll fucking apologize for my motherfucking dirty language.”

/////

They schedule the press conference for that evening. Alex hadn’t expected it to be so soon, and from the looks of it, Parse hadn’t, either. But both of them know that Nora has her job for a reason, so they’re going to do what she says.

Alex and Parse leave together, both with a draft of their respective statements to look over. The bravado Parse showed in the conference room falls off him, and he stops at the door that sits between the cinderblock hallways and the rest of the world.

“Fitz,” Parse says, one hand gripping the door handle, “I’m not sure I can do this.”

Alex nods, sighing before he says, “I haven’t even told my parents.”

“That you’re thinking of coming out?”

“That I’m gay.”

Parson’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“No. I mean, they probably should’ve figured it out by now, since I’ve been going to Elliot’s parents’ for holidays for the past two years, but. Yeah.”

“Fuck, dude. You should probably tell them.”

“Probably should,” Alex sighs. “Probably won’t.”

“That’s not a great call, dude,” Parse says, his brow furrowed. “I mean, I don’t know them, so I don’t know where you’re coming from, but that’s a bad fucking move.”

“I know, it’s just,” Alex leans against the door next to Parse, facing back into the hall where Parse is facing forwards, “I’ve kind of lived out of the closet ever since I left home. And at this point, if they don’t know, I feel like that’s on them, not me.”

There’s a short period of silence before Alex looks over at Parse. His captain is looking at him with that same bemused expression from earlier, a smile playing at his lips.

“What?” Alex asks.

“You’re a weird dude.”

Alex smirks.

“So I’ve been told.”

When they finally push their way through the doors and head for the parking lot, Alex thinks of something.

“Uh, Parse?”

“Yeah?”

“I called and talked to Elliott yesterday. You know, just to tell him I’m gonna come out.”

“That’s your ex, right?”

“Yeah, sorry. So, he asked if we were coming out together. Like, as a couple.”

Alex turns to Parse for a reaction, but his captain’s face is blank.

“I guess lots of people are going to have that question,” Parse says carefully.

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, “and I know this isn’t a great time to ask, but—would you want to get dinner sometime?”

Alex has gotten a lot of reactions to that question in the past. Kind rejections, enthusiastic _no-fucking-ways_ , one or two looks of disgust. Elliott had honest-to-god tackle-hugged him and said he was proud that Alex had finally grown balls and asked.

But Parse is the first person to actually double over and laugh at him.

Alex isn’t gonna lie to himself, it wounds his ego more than a little bit.

“Er—Kent—sorry, I just—”

“No, no—don’t,” Parse says, and it kind of sounds like he’s in pain, which is weird. “I just—can you imagine the headlines? ‘Only Two Gays in the NHL Are Fucking?’ Honestly, holy _shit_ —”

Alex huffs in embarrassment. He’s asking for a date, not—whatever Kent _thinks_ he’s asking for. Not that he’d mind, obviously, but _damn_ , what a way to get turned down.

“Sorry, that was stupid,” he says, instead of trying to clarify.

“A little, yeah.”

“And it’s a no, right?”

Kent grins at him, and it looks different from before—kind of evil, honestly.

“It’s a no, Fitzy.”

/////

They meet once more before going in front of the cameras; Nora steps into frame first, followed by Parse, Alex, and then Chaz limps out, for reasons Alex still isn’t totally clear on.

It’s a normal setup, all four of them taking seats at the black-draped table, spade-covered backdrop hung behind them. Alex releases a shaky breath as he looks out on the sea of reporters and cameras that face them, here to record a genuinely historic moment.

He glances to his left to see Kent fiddling with his tie, his normal bravado giving way to a look of barely-concealed discomfort. Alex nudges him beneath the table, knuckles brushing against his leg. Kent looks over swiftly, and Alex supplies him with what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

He doesn’t tune into Nora’s opening address until it’s nearly over, dragging his gaze away from Kent and concentrating on the piece of paper in front of him.

“—for being here today. I’m going to turn the mic over to Kent Parson, who I’m sure you’re well acquainted with at this point.”

Kent lets out a puff of air before he begins to speak, making sure to look in the direction each of the cameras as he says, “Hey.”

He pauses for a beat, licking his lips. It’s not awkward like it should be; it’s painfully endearing.

“I have no intention of apologizing for the things I said two days ago, but I would like to begin by apologizing for the manner in which I said them. I’m in a role of leadership and responsibility, and I recognize that the language I used reflected poorly upon both myself and my team.

“That said,” and Alex can feel the tension in the room reach it’s climax, cameras snapping, all eyes on Kent. “I _am_ gay. Due to a set of extremely trying circumstances over the past week, I was not at my best after the Aeros game. These events were not due to any impropriety on my part,” Kent glances up from where he’s reading his statement, quirking his lips in a small smile as he says, “Shockingly.”

Nora rolls her eyes at Kent for going off script, but she doesn’t look too angry.

“Regardless, my privacy was invaded, and I am now the first out player in the NHL—a title I had no intention of claiming. I ask that you respect my privacy as I continue to do my job, which is to play hockey, to lead, and to set an example for others. Thank you.”

Kent pushes back from the mic as Alex leans forward on his folded arms. He waits for Nora to shush the snap of shutters and premature call of questions before beginning.

“Three days ago, I didn’t expect to be here, either,” Alex says, and he’s paraphrasing a bit, tailoring the script to his liking, but he knows what he’s doing. “Since Parse took the _First Openly Gay Player_ title, I’m gonna have to settle for second _._ ” The room begins to buzz again.

“As my career has progressed, I’ve become less and less content with hiding my sexuality, though I’ve always been hesitant to come out of the closet, as it were.

“But if Kent’s doing it, I figure I might as well. I’m excited to continue to play under his leadership, and to play with the entirety of this team.”

As Alex wraps up, attention immediately shifts to Chaz, who grins as he tips forward on his chair.

“I’m straight,” he says, and everybody laughs at the joke. The eased tension almost seems like relief, which is something that Alex isn’t ready to think about. “I’m mostly here in solidarity, but I’m also here as former captain and once-and-future goalie. No offense, Fitz.”

Alex grins. “None taken, Charles.”

Chaz turns back to the press.

“I want to address the fans, both Aces and otherwise. Thank you for your continued support of hockey, especially as it grows and adapts to this new era. Our sport is one of talent, one of toughness and endurance. But it’s also one of brotherhood.

“This is not a sudden change—there have always been and will always be gay athletes. What we’re doing today is not conceding to a movement. We’re becoming what we always should have been: an environment where all manner of talented, tough young men feel comfortable enough to share their lives with their teammates, with their brothers. These brothers here have taken the first steps, the hardest steps. It’s now up to you to continue forward, in acceptance and sportsmanship.”

At a nod from Chaz, Nora leans up to her mic and says, “We will now take questions. Please wait for me to call on you before addressing the players.”

Hands shoot up instantly, and Nora nods to one of the reporters. The question is for Parse, so Alex takes the time to lean over to Chaz.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and Chaz waves a dismissive hand. “No, I mean it. Well said.”

Chaz settles into his chair haughtily.

“I am a man of smooth vernacular.”

“Nora wrote that, didn’t she?”

“No,” Chaz mutters, but he looks a little shifty.

Alex raises his eyebrows in response.

“Okay, fuckin sue me,” Chaz grumbles. “It’s not like I disagreed with any of it.”

“Smooth vernacular my _ass_ ,” Alex says, stifling a grin.

They’re interrupted by a question for Chaz about locker room dynamic, which he scoffs at.

“These boys can tell you that we’ve got a tight knit group in there. I don’t think we have any reason to worry about Gay One and Gay Two hitting on their teammates _or_ their teammates turning against them—right, Fitz?”

“For sure,” Alex says, and he means it. “As I said before, I haven’t really been in the closet for awhile now. I have no issues with any of the players. Except maybe with Gordon and his complete disregard for hygiene.”

“Yeah,” Kent chimes in, “Let’s get Gordo up here; he needs some outside pressure to start applying Old Spice more regularly.”

“You’d think marriage would have cured that one,” Chaz sighs, shaking his head mournfully.

“Old habits die hard,” Nora says drily, her face completely straight. “Next question.”

/////

When Alex gets out of the elevator on the ground floor the next afternoon, he runs right into Hackman and Mäkinen. They’ve obviously just gotten back from a pre-game run; they’re noticeably sweaty and both have earbuds hanging out of the collars of their shirts.

They stop talking when they notice him, and he’s a little taken aback by the straight up _glare_ Sebastian sends his way.

“You did not tell us?” he grinds out.

“I, uh,” Alex stammers, floundering. “It just didn’t really come up, I—”

Hackman puts a hand on Seb’s shoulder, clamping down.

“Don’t worry,” he says to Alex, “Sebby’s just salty cause he didn’t know. He’s cool about, uh. You know. Your. Thing.”

Alex grins, trying not to let his relief show, even if Hackman is using vague hand gestures as an excuse for real grown-up words.

“Anyway,” Hackman continues, pushing down further on Mäkinen until his roommate tips into him with the added weight, “You probably don’t wanna leave the building right now.”

“Reporters are outside,” Seb says darkly, hooking one of Hackman’s ankles with his own and trying to pull his leg out from under him as they grapple.

“Are you serious?” Alex says, incredulous. This is a new one for him. It figures his first full-out paparazzi stalking would have nothing to do with the fact that he’s a damn good goalie.

“Yes, serious!”

“They know where you live, dude.”

“I just need to get to my fucking car,” Alex says, pushing a hand through his hair. “I gotta get to the dome.”

The two stop roughhousing to share a meaningful look.

Seb turns to Alex first. “You will wait for us.”

“Yeah, we can carpool,” Hackman says, and he’s grinning. “I’ll go get Dickie.”

“He naps,” Sebastian informs Alex. “Can’t play if he can’t nap.”

/////

Sneaking is probably more effective, Alex muses, if it doesn’t involve four hockey players who all stand at over six feet tall.

But the three roommates are all super into the idea, and they grab sunglasses and baseball caps from their extensive collection, pressuring Alex into popping the collar on his jacket to further deter attention.

They have to hustle down to the lobby in order to make it to Hackman’s Jeep in time, and once they reach the doors, they all look at each other, biting back grins and preparing to sprint.

Alex can now see the people waiting outside his building; there’s a shitty local news van whose channel he doesn’t recognize and at least four or five other people milling around, keeping a beady eye out for him.

Dickie counts down and they make a break for it, bursting through the doors all at once and sprinting past the camera crew. Seb whoops at them in Finnish, throwing a middle finger over his shoulder as he dashes by. Alex hears the reporters yell after them, but he just hikes his gear bag higher up onto his shoulder and follows Hackman, who’s giggling uncontrollably by the time they make it to the stairs of the parking garage next door.

“Oh, _fuck_ , I hope that makes it on Fox Sports,” he hiccups, taking the steps two at a time. He’s still laughing when they arrive at his car. “Just—ha!—us shooting out the doors and Sebby tossing the bird!”

“Now you’re my _real_ D-man, eh, Pac-Man?”

“Wait, what’d you say, Sebs?” Dickie asks as he climbs into shotgun.

“I, ah,” Sebastian looks guilty. “I said _imekää munaa_.”

“Which means?” Hackman prompts.

Seb glances sidelong at Alex, as if expecting a reprimand. “I told them to suck a dick.”

“Holy hell.” Alex drops his head against Hackman’s seat in front of him and laughs.

/////

The game is a relief after the past couple days, because contrary to most of the headlines he’s seen, the world hasn’t tipped on it’s axis. The dome is sold out, and there's a noticeably higher number of fans with signs behind the glass, although Alex doesn't really have time to read them. Everybody on the ice came to Vegas to play hockey, so that’s what they’re gonna do.

Well, most of them, anyway. Parse still looks haggard, and he’s been missing practice pretty regularly, so it doesn’t come as a huge surprise when he’s only on the ice for a few shifts in the first before Yates benches him.

It’s a hard win, 3-2, but both the Aces and the Preds fight clean for it. Weber, the Predators’ captain, makes a point to congratulate both Kent and Alex afterward, and Alex feels himself relaxing. He knows that every game won’t be like this, but he’s happy to pretend.

/////

Since Alex made the mistake of carpooling with his younger teammates, he’s roped into going out for drinks to celebrate Hackman’s first NHL goal. The first round is beer, which Alex is good for, but after that Dickie insists on doing shots and Alex drifts to another group of players.

He’s a little surprised to see Parse there, sitting in a booth across from Harpy and Scott, so he slides in next to him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Cap,” Alex says, grinning.

“If I’m not gonna be sleeping, I might as well try to wear myself out,” Kent says lightly.

“If you  _really_ want to get tired fast, just go try to keep up with Mäkinen. That kid is exhausting when he’s wasted.”

Parse leans around him to look at the trio at the bar. “Dickie’s gonna get in trouble.”

“See, there’s the step-dad we know and love.”

A grin splits Parson’s face, and it might be weary, but it’s genuine.

“Hey, you need to get home?”

“I, uh,” Kent stifles a belch, “I’m a little— _wooo_ —right now. Can’t drive.”

“You gonna call a cab?”

Kent shakes his head.

“Well, I can drive you. If you want. I came with the three stooges at the bar.”

Kent narrows his eyes for a few seconds, but then he snorts a laugh and agrees to it.

/////

They drive in silence, Parse leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed. It’s only broken fifteen minutes in when Parse’s phone rings.

He grabs for it and checks the number.

“I should—I gotta take this,” he says, and he sounds sober, grounded in a way he didn’t the last time he spoke.

Alex nods and the ringing stops.

“Hey, Jack,” Kent says into his phone, and his voice is tired and fond and sad all at once.

There’s a gap, in which Alex does his best not to listen in on the conversation, but he can’t really help it.

“— _didn’t call. Are you alright?_ ”

“Yeah,” Kent says softly. “I am. I, uh. I need to ask you something.”

There’s a period of silence where Alex can’t tell if Jack—Jack _Zimmermann_ , probably, no big deal—is speaking or not.

“So—my sorry-ass messages you didn’t answer. I guess you switched phones?”

“ _Oh. No, I didn't_.”

“Then what is this number?” Kent sounds confused and angry. He turns his head away from Alex, looking out the passenger side window at the brightly lit streets. There’s another gap of silence before Kent sputters with half-hearted laughter.

“Why the _fuck_ do you need a landline, Jack, I—no—sorry, forget it. That doesn’t matter. You've been getting all my calls and ignoring them, then?”

“ _I didn't know what you wanted me to say, Kent. Figured you would move on faster if I didn't answer_.”

“So it was supposed to be in my best interest or some shit?” Kent says hotly.

“ _M_ _ine, too_.”

“And did you? Move on, that is?”

There’s such a long silence that Alex thinks he’s missed the answer, or that the call has gone dead. He’s turning into Kent’s parking space when he finally hears Zimmermann say, “ _Y_ _eah, Kent. I did_.”

Kent closes his eyes and nods, and Alex pulls the keys out of the ignition and goes to step out of the car to give them some privacy. Kent catches his arm and looks at him pleadingly, but Alex has no idea what he’s asking for.

“What happened between us,” Kent says into the phone, “I don’t regret it.”

There’s more silence, and Alex doesn’t know what to do; Kent’s fingers are still digging in just above his elbow, though his eyes aren’t focused on anything when he speaks again.

“I mean, my therapist has told me our relationship was freakishly co-dependant and destined to fall apart. Like, I’m under no illusion that it was healthy.”

“ _Yeah. It wasn't good_.”

“But Zimms, I wouldn’t be half the man I am today if you hadn’t been there. I’m sorry everything happened the way it did, and I’m sorry I’m still such a goddamned asshole, but I’m not sorry that I loved you.”

Alex isn’t supposed to hear this; he knows he’s not part of this conversation—Zimmermann doesn’t he know he’s _here_ , for fucks sake. But Kent is holding onto him like a lifeline, so Alex stays. If he’s good at anything, it’s backing people up.

Zimmermann is talking now. Alex doesn’t know what any of the words mean.

“I know,” Kent says. He repeats it a couple more times—just, _I know, I know, I know_ until—

“I’m gonna go, Jack.”

“ _Okay. Take care of yourself._ ”

“You too.”

/////

They sit for a long time before Alex recovers his ability to speak.

“I won’t say anything.”

“I know you won’t.”

“But. You and him?”

Kent nods.

“Yeah.”

“How long?” Alex gets that he’s being nosy, but if Kent doesn’t want to answer, he won’t.

“Little less than a year.”

“In Juniors?”

“Till he—till the draft, yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

They’re both facing forward in the dark. Kent sighs.

“He’s—Jack’s why I can’t do it. Why I can’t date a teammate.”

Alex is hit by a wave of guilt.

“You didn’t have to let me hear all that just to—to prove a point. I don’t need an explanation for why you don’t like me; saying no was enough.”

Even in the dark, Alex can tell Kent is shooting him a look of pure judgment.

“That’s not why I did that,” he says, exasperated. “And that’s the whole fucking problem, okay, Fitz? The problem is that I _do_ like you, but I can’t let the same thing happen twice.”

Alex bites his lip. He makes sure to organize his thoughts before he even opens his mouth, because right here, right now, precision matters.

“Kent.”

“Yeah?”

“If your answer is no, I’ll respect that. That’s enough for me.”

“There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

Alex smiles.

“You aren’t who you were seven years ago, Kent. And I’m not Jack Zimmermann. You’re the captain of a Stanley Cup-winning NHL team, you’re a fucking amazing hockey player, and we’re both out. Nothing is uncertain anymore. So if you legitimately don’t want to go to dinner with me, then that’s fine.”

He turns to Kent now, reaching out to ghost his fingers along his forearm, just enough to feel Kent shiver under his touch.

“But if you’re afraid of history repeating itself, then I have news for you: it _can’t_.”

/////

The first game in February is a roadie to Boston. Alex _hates_ playing there. It was bad enough when he was playing with the Blues, who are an old enough team to actually have legitimate history with the opposing players, but the Aces’ status as an expansion team does not make them any less likely rise to the Bruins’ baits.

Kent’s back in the game full time now; he’s been meeting with his therapist again, hanging out with the team more, and it must be doing something good for him, because the purple circles under his eyes have faded back to normal. Or, a level normal for professional athletes near the last leg of their season.

The game is physical, with penalties drawn by both sides. He’s trying to stay cool, concentrate on the puck and keep their point deficit down to where it currently is, but three straight months with no breaks has really taken its toll on Alex’s temper.

The enforcer doesn’t even have the puck when he crashes through Alex’s line of sight, clipping his guards. It should be a penalty for interference, but so much is happening around them that Hackman is the only one who hears the insult the Bruin spits in Alex’s direction.

The puck goes in, and Hackman fucking _loses_ it. He crashes into the offending player, dropping his gloves and grabbing at his sweater. The guy defends himself, but he’s grinning, because he’s done his job; the puck’s in the net, after all. Hackman catches a punch to his jaw, but he keeps standing, swinging the guy around and pulling his jersey over his head with his left fist as he lays into him with his right.

The refs are skating over, blowing their whistles, but they’re useless. Alex drops his guards and skates over, bear hugging his D-man and yanking him back, hissing at him to leave it.

When Hackman gives up, he’s shaking with fury, mouth and fists bloody.

Alex faces him, grabbing the back of his neck as he yells, “Defend the crease, you giant lumbering idiot, not me!”

“He can’t say that,” Hackman says, still livid. “He can’t fucking get away with that—”

“You think I’m not mad? I fucking am, okay, Derrick? But we can’t afford stupid penalties!”

He’s probably still screaming over the Boston crowd when the refs take Hackman by the arm, escorting him off the ice and out of the game.

/////

Alex might be grateful if he weren’t so fucking mad about losing.

Derrick isn’t looking at him, isn’t talking to him. He’s just sitting on the bench, glaring at his phone, a butterfly bandage next to his angry line of a mouth.

“You need to talk to him,” Kent sighs.

“What can I even say?” Alex says, suddenly exhausted. “I know why he did it, but we can’t afford that kind of shit, even if the king of all douchebags decides to call me names.”

Kent looks at him. Alex wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“What did he call you?” Kent asks quietly, like he can already hazard a guess. Which, okay, he definitely can.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” It’s Alex’s turn to sigh as he zips up his bag. “I mean, it wasn’t exactly creative.”

“And Hackman was, what, defending your honor?”

“I guess.”

Kent keeps staring at him, like Alex is some kind of annoying puzzle he can’t solve.

Finally, Alex bites.

“Okay, what is it? What do you want?”

“Talk to Hackman. Captain’s orders.”

Alex huffs, but he listens. After piddling around a bit and finishing at his locker, he crosses over to drop onto the bench next to his D-man.

“Thanks,” he says abruptly, and he’s pretty sure he means it, but his tone must say otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” Hackman replies quietly, turning off his phone and dropping it into his pocket.

“No, don’t be. That guy’s a dick, but he’s paid to be a dick. It’s part of the game.”

“He doesn’t have to take it out on you, though,” Hackman says, slumping against his stuff. “Like, there are actual homophobic people who agree with the shit he said; he doesn’t get to use that against us.”

“I know, man,” Alex says, and he nudges at his teammate’s shoulder. “Believe me, I know. Sometimes hockey sucks balls, but it is what it is. You gotta play through it.”

Hackman grunts at that; Alex knows he’s not convinced, but he’s okay with that.

“Don’t listen to me, though,” Alex says, grinning now. “I’m just a crusty old man, numb to the ways of the world.”

“Yeah, y’fuckin cynic,” Parse supplies from where he’s definitely been eavesdropping, “let the youth hope.”

/////

After Alex had given his little “History Won’t Repeat Itself Because You’re No Longer a Bag of Dicks” speech to Parson a few weeks back, he’d taken a cab back to his apartment and gone to bed.

They don’t talk about it again. Alex constantly tells himself he’s cool with that, since he’d said his piece and clearly been rejected. Again.

Alex is on board with the whole “no means no” thing, regardless of context. That shit is important. Objectively, he’s completely fine with Kent doing his own damn thing and not giving an explanation, because Kent doesn’t owe him anything.

Alex is nothing if not objective.

Okay, fuck it. That’s bullshit and he knows it.

/////

Alex is a messy, scrambled up person, like most people tend to be. He’s also tired, because even if goalkeepers don’t have to go sprinting around in circles every other night, he hasn’t had a day off since he was with the Blues, and that shit starts to wear on you.

Chaz is practicing with them again, no contact, which is great, but it’s odd to think he might be disposable as soon as the Aces get their starting goalie back.

Odd might be the wrong word, Alex broods, stretched out on his couch with a heating pad under his back. Terrifying might be a better one.

His sister is a trauma surgeon, which is pretty fucking neat, unless you need to vent and she’s in the middle of a shift and she isn’t answering your calls. He guesses it makes up for the combined years of his life he spent on the ice.

All he wants to do is bitch to her about his life, but he can’t, so he settles for calling Kent.

“ _Yo._ ”

“Hey, dude. You got plans Thursday?”

“ _Just a hockey game. In another state. Pretty sure you should know that._ ”

“I know our schedule, asshole. We’ll be in St. Louis.”

“ _Oh._ ” Kent’s obviously put two and two together. “ _Right. What’s up?_ ”

“Well, I wondered if you’d want to hang out with my friends.” He goes for nonchalance, trying to cover the fact that this is legitimately stressing him out. “I haven’t seen them since the break up, and I kinda met them through Elliott. I don’t know what to expect.”

“ _Will he be there?_ ”

“Yeah, this was my alternative solution to meeting up with only him.”

“ _Huh._ ”

“I mean, you don’t have to, obviously. You’d be doing me a favor, though.”

“ _Yeah, okay. I’ll go._ ”

Alex finds himself grinning. He tries to tamp down on it so that Kent can’t hear it in his voice.

“Awesome. Fair warning, they’re all gay as _fuck_.”

/////

It's strange to be back. Alex thinks Sebs can tell that he's freaking out a little, because he claps him on the back with one of his gigantic hands and tells Alex to, “play for puck and safe,” when he leaves their room. It makes no grammatical sense, but Alex thinks he understands the sentiment.

The on-ice reunion is eased by the sheer existence of Jeff Yarborough, who bundles Alex and Kent into a group hug that he instinctively tries to squirm out of. Alex can't remember ever having met the guy, honestly, but when he finally fights from Jeff's grip, he sees that Kent is still clinging tightly.

His nerves ease a little at that. If a virtual stranger can support him, so can the guys he shared a locker room with for five and a half years.

/////

They lose in overtime, but they played hard and the fans weren’t as obnoxious as they could have been. Alex is proud of his team and takes it like a champ, preparing to answer local reporters’ questions. An emotional interview is expected, really, the story already written regardless of what he says, so he grins and shrugs a lot and gives them their sound bite.

Kent’s coming out of the showers when he finally gets to duck in, flashing a quick smile at Alex as he slides past, pale skin tinged pink from the hot water.

When Alex emerges, Kent’s combing his hair back, wearing an open flannel shirt and dark wash jeans. He looks up at Alex almost nervously, and Alex can’t help but soften at the sight.

“You still good for tonight?”

“Yeah,” Kent answers, dragging a hand through his wet hair, “Of course.”

“You know you don’t have to, right? Like, you can go chill with Jeff if you want.”

“I know,” Kent says simply.

Alex flashes a grin at him as he yanks on a pair of pants. He knows he’s no fashionista, but Elliott had done wonders for his appearance, nudging him towards a warm, comfortable wardrobe that had a distinct lack of flip-flops and Nike SWAG T-shirts. Kent doesn’t need to know that a couple years ago Alex thought black and brown matched.

“Hair back or nah?”

“Uh… yes?”

“Good call,” Alex says, serious as he can muster as he rustles through his bag for a hairband. “Gotta show them I mean business.”

Kent’s looking a little bit dazed, five different expressions fighting for room on his face. He must realize he’s staring, because he shakes his head and grabs his coat from the bench, shrugging it on easily. He’s still standing further back in the locker room, noticeably shifting between feet.

Alex smirks, looping his hair into a knot on the back of his head. Kent’s nothing if not a people person, but his social life has revolved around hockey for the past five, ten, maybe fifteen years. The poor guy’s obviously out of his depth right now.

“So we’re gonna meet up at a Llewellyn’s—”

“Is that a person or a restaurant?”

“Bar,” Alex grins, “And it’s pretty cool. Celtic or some shit. We’ll meet up with everybody, maybe go back to Eliza’s for dessert or, like, more drinks or something. I don’t know. They’re all pretty laid back.”

“And Eliza’s a person?”

“Yeah, Parse, she’s a person.”

“Okay. Is there anything else I need to know about them?”

“Um… if you think they’re fucking, they probably are.”

He’s half joking, but Kent nods. He looks less overwhelmed than before, as though by learning the night’s plans he can better prepare himself to, what—defeat Alex’s friends? It’s a little sad, honestly. Kent doesn’t seem to know that social interactions don’t work like hockey games. There aren’t opposing sides, there’s no winning or losing.

Whatever. He’ll eventually learn that not everyone is out to get him, even if it means Alex embarrassing himself by putting his captain and his weird-ass friends in the same place.

/////

The bar isn’t overly crowded, so Alex spots his friends easily enough, tucked into a corner booth in the back. Sam and Eliza both jump up when they see Alex and Kent approaching, Sam barreling into him for a hug. The top of her spiked hair only reaches his armpits, so he laughs and squeezes her tightly before pushing away.

Eliza skips the pleasantries and punches him in the arm, which hurts. When Alex says as much, grabbing at his bicep, Kent laughs like an asshole.

“What was that for?” He splutters, indignant.

“That’s for never fucking calling, you moron,” Eliza says, but she doesn’t actually look angry.

“Sorry, I’ve been a little busy.”

“Mhmm,” she muses, peering past him to look at Kent, “Sure you have.”

“Hey, wait, no,” Kent protests, but it’s weak, at best.

“Oh yeah, so, squad, this is Kent,” Alex says, throwing an arm around Kent’s shoulders. “You might’ve heard of him. Kent, this is Sam, Eliza, Gerard, Patrick, and Elliott.”

Kent smiles at them, all charm, and there’s a chorus of greetings from the rest of Alex’s friends. They all scoot in to make room around the circular table, Alex squishing between Gerard and Kent, with Sam and Eliza on Kent’s other side.

“So,” Elliott starts, leaning across the table once Kent is distracted by Eliza showing him the menu, “You and him?”

“Really, man?” Patch says, elbowing him in the ribs. “You gotta get into this right off the bat?”

“I’m just asking, c’mon,” Elliott says, and he smiles easily at Alex, dimples showing.

Sometimes it’s really hard to be angry at Elliott.

“It’s all good,” Alex says, but he doesn’t answer, instead directing his attention to Gerard to ask how his internship’s been treating him.

They talk about that for awhile, about Gerard’s nerdy biochemical shit that he’s neck deep in, which Patch has a lot to say about. Alex doesn’t really understand the technical parts of it, but he gets the idea that Sam and Gerard are, in Patch’s opinion, being overworked.

“It’s some medieval type shit, dude. They’re in there nine-to-five, no pay, listening to their boss go on about government conspiracies and alien abductions—”

“About what now?” Kent asks, whipping his head around.

“Alien abductions,” Gerard huffs, rolling his eyes. “Sam’s mentor is… something else.”

“My mentor’s a little obsessed with extraterrestrial life,” Sam says, grinning. “He’s a genius, he just uses his genius a little, uh, _differently_.”

“You sure this isn’t _The X-Files_?” Kent asks, and Eliza groans, because that’s just _asking_ for Sam to geek out.

She does, because she’s predictable like that. Alex sits back to watch her and Elliott pick up one of their older arguments, nudging Kent with his shoulder. Kent turns to him, grinning, and Alex can’t help but smile back, because he just looks _happy_.

“What?” Kent says, raising his eyebrows and lowering his voice.

“Nothing,” Alex assures him, reaching for his beer. “I’m good.”

If all it takes to get Kent Parson happy is watching Alex’s friends cheerfully tell each other to go fuck themselves over some nerdy old TV show, then Kent needs to get out of the house more often. And despite Elliott’s heckling, Alex is pretty sure he’s the man for the job.

/////

Alex orders the fish and chips, which is greasy enough for Kent to give him a withering look, but he doesn’t really care. They all finish up with plenty of time to go back to Eliza’s for dessert, and Alex takes the bill, because he knows he’s a lucky bastard, getting paid to play a sport when all his friends are doing legitimate work. Elliott rolls his eyes, but he’d lost that argument long ago, and now is not the time to bring it back up.

Alex and Kent load into his rental after he swears to Eliza that he remembers where she lives.

Once they’re alone, Alex turns to Kent and starts to say, “If you want to go back, we can totally—”

“No,” Kent says firmly. “Your friends are cool, Fitzy.”

Alex smiles, fond. “Yeah. Yeah, they are pretty cool.”

He’s relieved, really, and feels a twinge of guilt for ever thinking that they might all side with Elliott in their completely reasonable and mostly sideless break up. That was dumb. Alex was dumb.

/////

Eliza’s place is warm, cluttered and lived in, especially now that Sam’s moved in, too. They’ve obviously straightened up, because the mismatched couches are bare, with the exception of two cats and a couple throw blankets. Sam tries to make them all sit down, handing out drinks, but Elliott insists on helping her and Eliza in the kitchen.

Alex sits between the two cats, and Kent follows him, plucking the one on his left up off the furniture and placing it in Alex’s lap so that he can take the seat instead.

Kent scratches at its ear absently, and Alex feels the cat purring against his leg. He looks up to see Gerard stifling laughter, his lips pressed together.

“Okay, fuck it,” Patch says, because he and Gerard are freaky like that, always on the same wavelength, “Are you dating or not?”

“Uh—”

“Well—”

Alex meets Kent’s eyes.

“No,” he says, and Kent nods almost imperceptibly.

“Oh,” Patch says, and he sounds a little surprised. “I thought—never mind, I guess.”

“I mean,” Kent begins, and Alex looks over to him again, because he honestly has no idea what he’s about to say, “It’s not like—I don’t _not_ want to date Alex. I just have my own shit to work out right now.”

Alex looks down at the cat in his lap, trying to fight a smile. The cat blinks back up at him disdainfully.

“That makes sense,” Gerard says, nodding. “It must’ve been shitty, both of you coming out at the same time.”

“Well, yeah, but that wasn’t the shitty part,” Alex protests.

Kent hums in agreement. “Alex coming out was only a good thing for me, really. I don’t know if it _actually_ took any pressure off, but it sure as hell felt like it.”

“Of _course_ you get into deep conversation as soon as I’m gone,” Sam says, appearing in the doorway. “Cut that out. Since you never talk to us, _Alexander_ , I need a full recap of the last three months. You might as well wait until everyone is present before you start.”

“I said I was sorry, okay? I’ll call more often, I swear—”

“Calm your tits, Alex,” Eliza says, pushing past Sam with a pan of something that smells heavenly, “We know. Now eat.”

Elliott comes in after her, placing his tray laden with ice cream bowls on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

“Blondies,” Sam says, pointing at the first dish, then turning her finger on the second, “and ice cream. Obviously.”

Alex displaces the cat when he leans forward too quickly, but it’s collateral damage in his great conquest of Kent Parson, really. He hands a bowl to Kent first, then gets one for himself, leaning back into the couch to get started on it.

He finishes it off quickly, while Gerard is asking Kent about the Aces playoff chances. Alex sets the bowl down and fidgets for a moment, listening to Kent talk about this other life they have, the closed off fantasy world of professional hockey. It really is Kent’s life, in a way that it hasn’t been Alex’s in a long time.

When Kent is done talking, Alex spreads his arm across the back of the sofa, briefly touching Kent as he stretches out. Kent visibly flinches, and Alex immediately goes to draw his arm back, feeling guilty.

“No,” Kent says, and he sounds hoarse, “Leave it. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I—I’m being stupid,” Alex says, but Kent grabs his wrist and holds it across his shoulders.  

“Just,” Kent huffs out a laugh, face coloring as he realizes how many eyes are on them, “Fuck, sorry. I’m not used to this.”

“Not big on PDA?” Sam guesses, and Alex glares at her over Parse’s head. He doesn’t need her to run interference for him.

“More like not used to being gay. Like, openly.”

“Obviously,” Sam smirks, folding her legs up underneath herself.

“But this is okay?” Alex says, arranging himself more comfortably next to Kent, lightly tugging him up against his side.

“Yeah, Fitzy. It is.”

Eliza clears her throat, and attention shifts to her, perched on the arm of Sam’s chair, but the warmth stays, Kent tucked up under Alex’s arm, relaxing into him. Alex glances around the room, because this is a big moment, not because he’s never done this before, but because it’s _Kent_ , okay? Kent feels safe and it may not be because of Alex specifically, but Alex is included in it.

Elliott’s staring at them, a pensive look on his face. Even if he’s the one who broke it off, it’s gotta be tough to play seventh wheel, and the tense set of his shoulders betrays him even when he laughs at one of Eliza’s jokes.

Sam eventually gets her three month recap, in which Alex describes his apartment and his new teammates and coming out, all of which sounds almost unreal—foreign to his own ears. Except it must be real, because Kent keeps explaining details he left out, laughing at his characterization of Dickie and Hackman, correcting his timeline of events.

It’s really, really good, and Alex is sorry to leave when Kent grips his hand and pulls him off the couch. He picks up bowls to carry into the kitchen, and is surprised to see Elliott behind him when he turns away from the sink.

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” Elliott says.

“Me too,” Alex responds. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to catch up more. I need to hear about your life.”

Elliott laughs, the sound dripping with self deprecation. “Nah, you don’t. You’re the one with new stories. I’m just the same old guy, same old job.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t care,” Alex says, and fuck it, if they’re gonna leave, now’s the time. Elliott doesn’t get to corner him. “Why are you saying this, anyway? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just a little surprised, I guess,” Elliott says, slowly and with purpose, “At how fast you moved on.”

Alex stares at him, his mouth hanging open. It takes a few moments, but he comes back to himself, closes his mouth and leans against the tiled countertop, arms crossed.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

Elliott shrugs, shifting between feet. He turns his eyes up towards Alex, peering at him through his lashes.

“Fuck this,” Alex snorts, and he pushes off the counter until he’s standing squarely in front of Elliott. “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

Elliott’s shoulders droop, but he says nothing as Alex walks past him and into the living room.

Kent is giving his number to Sam and Eliza, probably so that the girls can find another way to harass Alex when he forgets to return their calls.

Alex stops to hug Gerard and Patrick, clapping them on the back as they wish him luck with his career, then does the same with Eliza and Sam, although Eliza mutters threats instead of well wishes.

When Alex pulls away, he looks past them to see Elliott, slouched uncharacteristically a couple feet back, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his khakis. He gives an awkward little wave, and Elliott nods in reply.

/////

Kent’s nearly asleep when they get back to the hotel, sagging against the opposite wall of the elevator.

“You alright?” Alex asks, quiet.

Kent shakes himself awake and quirks a lip at Alex, eyes doing most of the smiling.

“I’m good, Fitz.”

“Good.”

Kent bites his lip, shifting his gaze to the elevator doors, waiting to speak until they slide open.

“I think,” Kent offers as they walk down the quiet hallway, “that I forget people can just… be gay. Like, I’m not an idiot, obviously I _know_ , but—it’s never been that easy for me, you know?”

Alex wants to say a lot of things—he wants to tell Kent that he lives in a bubble of masculinity, that he’s been brainwashed to think that the epitome of existence is stoicism, is having people depend on you but needing nothing in return. Alex really, _really_ wants to tell Kent that he isn’t weak. That being gay doesn’t make him weak, that needing help doesn’t make him weak, that even if it did, weakness isn’t something to be ashamed of.

Instead, he just says, “I know,” and Kent nods as they reach Alex’s door. Neither of them really make a move to open it, standing in silence, Alex gripping the keycard in his pocket.

“When does the bus leave tomorrow?” Alex asks, awkwardly breaking the silence.

Kent makes a noise of exasperation, fisting both hands in Alex’s jacket and dragging him down into a kiss. It’s soft, chaste, and Alex brings his hands up to Kent’s waist, not pushing or pulling, just holding him in place. Kent breaks it off a moment later, leaning his forehead into Alex’s shoulder.

“Nine, I think.”

“Hm?” Alex ducks down to press his lips against the shell of Kent’s ear.

“The bus, dumbass. I think it leaves at nine.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

/////

Sebs is starfished on his bed when Alex slips inside, but the bathroom light rouses him.

“Fitz,” he mutters, kicking at the sheets to get his long legs back under them, “It’s late.”

“I know, dude. Sorry to wake you up.”

Sebs waves a dismissive hand in the air, flopping over onto his stomach to groan into the mattress.

“We lose to the fucking _Blues_ , Fitz,” he says, voice muffled by his comforter.

“Yeah, I was there, Sebastian,” Alex sighs as he pulls his shirt over his head, “I know.”

Sebs lifts his face just enough to glare at Alex with one eye. His expression changes to glee with worrying speed.

“Your hair,” he says, pushing up on his elbows to chirp properly. “It is pretty. You have a date?”

Alex laughs, throws his shirt at Sebs’ head, and cuts off the light.

“Go to sleep, you big Finnish baby.”

/////

Alex wakes up prepared to give Kent space. The dude’s been through a lot; even if they had a good night, there’s still a whole lot to talk about. Kissing Kent—well, yeah, Alex is down for more kissing. But as much as he can analyze the situation from every angle and calculate different reactions, there’s no way for him to really know what Kent’s going to be like today.

By the time he actually enters the hotel’s dining room and gets through the buffet line, he’s so deep in his own mind that he doesn’t notice Kent approaching until he’s grabbing Alex’s sleeve.

Alex starts, stumbling a little, and when he looks over, Kent’s trying really hard not to laugh at him.

“Fuck off,” Alex says, professional as ever, and Kent pushes him towards the team table with a snort.

Nothing is wildly different, though judging by Kent’s facial expression, he’s noticed just how often Alex keeps glancing up at him over his plate of hash browns. Kent just smirks and hooks his ankle around Alex’s, which is so innocent and sweet that Alex has to cram his mouth full of oatmeal so that he doesn’t chirp Kent in front of the team.

Hopefully, there will be a thousand other opportunities to expose Kent as a tentative romantic.

 

**Chapter 4**

Kent’s done his best to stay out of the limelight after his nationally televised coming out party.

He’s spent a lot of hours with his therapist, a lot of hours on the phone with his mom, a lot of hours lying on his overly plush carpet with Kit walking over him periodically. He’s gotten back on schedule with his training, and overall, he’s really feeling pretty okay about life at least 80% of the time. Which isn’t so bad, considering, like, _everything_.

But he’s a hockey player, and a damn good one, too, so he can’t avoid the press forever.

Alberto talks him into doing an interview for ESPN Magazine, mostly by telling him that maybe people will let up a little bit if he actually answers some of their favorite questions. Kent doesn’t think it’s anybody’s business who he’s dated or how long he’s known, but that’s never mattered to the general public.

“Besides,” Alberto had said, “Once they find out you’re boring as all fuck, maybe Puck Daddy will stop calling me right when I sit down to dinner.”

And that was what Kent was afraid of, honestly. He didn’t have any cute anecdotes to tell, no heartwarming stories.

When he told Alberto this, his agent had sighed.

“You can refuse to talk about certain people or events. Try to turn the conversation somewhere else. Make shit up for all I care; say you had a summer fling with one of the boys from One Direction but refuse to say who.”

“Oh my god, Al. That’s fucked up.”

“That’s the world for you, Parson. Fucked up.”

/////

“So,” Sylvie Walters says, folding her smooth legs neatly in front of her. She’s wearing a deep blue dress and a sympathetic expression; Kent’s pretty sure they picked her for the piece solely because she has some shred of empathy in her body. “You’ve had a busy few months.”

Kent barks a laugh.

“Yeah, to put it lightly.”

“You’re on an eight game point streak, your team’s won your last eleven conference games—obviously the craziness of the last month or two hasn’t affected your play.”

“Well,” Kent says, “We’re a good team. Our record proves that. Even if, you know, one of us is having an off week, we have the depth to make up for it.”

“Sure,” Sylvie concedes, nodding sagely. “Your teammates have backed you up on the ice. What about off it? What’s that been like?”

“They’ve been great,” Kent says, and he doesn’t even have to think about it, because it’s true. But Sylvie gives him a look, like, _we need more than that, idiot,_ so Kent rolls his shoulders and goes on.

“Really, they couldn’t have been more supportive. Right after sh—uh, everything went down, Gordon and Scott came over, pulled me out of my head a little bit. And they’re not the only ones, you know, people who have sought me out, not just let me, like, stew, or whatever.”

“You and Fitzpatrick. I’m sure having each other around was good for both of you.”

“Absolutely. Yeah, Alex has been amazing. He’s a less, like, inwardly focussed person than I am? That’s probably not the right way to put it, but he’s got a great perspective on all of this. Just kind of, I don’t know, takes me down a notch.”

Kent grimaces; his words don’t make a ton of sense, but neither do the things in his head, so ESPN’s just gonna have to deal. He tries again.

“Alex… he lives unapologetically, I guess. He does his own thing, says what he’s thinking, but he won’t interfere with your life unless he thinks it hurts someone else. Or if he thinks you’re hurting yourself, you know? He just, he knows when to step in, but when to joke around, too. And he’s, like, really good at hockey, so.”

“The perfect man, huh,” Sylvie says, smiling.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Kent says. “He’s probably got a couple flaws. He’s an _awful_ cook; that’s at least one.”

That earns him a laugh, and Kent relaxes back into the armchair.

They talk about hockey for a little while, about the season; all easy questions until they wrap back around to the real reason Kent’s here.

“Now, Kent. You never intended to come out, correct?”

Kent shakes his head, says, “No, it wasn’t really in the plan.”

“But now that you have—it sounds like it hasn’t been all bad,” Sylvie says. “Given what you know now, would you make the same decisions that led to this?”  
  
Kent reaches for the plastic water bottle by his feet, trying to buy himself a bit of time to think. He takes a long draw from it and then sits back.

“First off,” he says, slow and careful, “The _decisions_ I made that led to this were not—not exactly conscious, okay? I mean, someone needed help, and I just. Helped them. I didn’t think about consequences.”

“So would you do it again?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.” He keeps his voice stable all the way through, maybe too relaxed, maybe too uncaring. “I wish I was better than that, but there you go.

“Because that’s the second thing, right? This was hands down the worst experience I possibly could have had. So I really shouldn’t be the go-to source on happily-ever-after coming out stories.”

/////

After she’s clicked off the audio recorder, Sylvie stands to shake Kent’s hand.

“Look,” she says, “I know what I have to say doesn’t really matter. But it sounds like you need to take a few steps back from the situation, okay? Look at it from another point of view.”

“Another point of view?” Kent says, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. Sylvie’s still gripping his hand. “This has been my personally tailored _hell_ , okay? You don’t get to—”

“I know,” Sylvie interrupts. “But it can’t be hell if it’s gotten better.”

Kent stares at her incredulously.

“Then what the fuck is it?”

“Well, if we’re sticking with biblical terms—I’d say crucifixion and resurrection.”

/////

Kent leaves more confused than when he got there.

It kinda sounded like she called him Jesus, but—maybe there was something else there, too. Something about needing to overcome all his hang-ups, big as they are, in order to actually enjoy life.

One way or another, that was a fucking _heavy_  interview for a sports magazine.

/////

Kent gets to practice a good half hour early the next day, already thinking about holes in Seattle’s defense and working on Valley’s forecheck and fixing Richards’ slapshot. He’ll need to ask for extra ice time with Dickie; the kid’s a rookie, and he’s good, but he can do better.

Everyone has more or less reached a new equilibrium. It’s reassuring to see that Kent’s whole shitshow barely upset their balance; everyone adjusted to the new information, took it in stride and carried on playing some fucking stellar hockey.

And it’s good, Kent thinks as he stretches out on the bench. He’d somehow gotten it into his head that, if there was a Venn diagram of people who know him and people who love him, the two circles might not overlap.

He’s just really, really grateful for his team.

/////

Kent’s also grateful for Alex, which he hasn’t said out loud, but he figures it’s kind of implied by the way they keep ending up in the same spaces when they could just be alone.

Tonight, they’re sacked out on Alex’s sectional, Kent idly scrolling through his twitter feed while Alex dozes, face planted on Kent’s chest.

He’s got one arm tucked between Kent and the cushions, another folded up by his head, fingers curled loosely in the fabric of Kent’s T-shirt. He’s obviously peaceful, and he’s very warm, but he’s also a solid 215 pounds of hockey player, which means Kent’s legs are falling asleep.

Even so, Kent takes a moment to smile down at him before running his hand through Alex’s hair and shifting beneath him.

Alex huffs, clinging a little tighter like the limpet that he is.

“Babe, you gotta get up.”

Alex grunts something that sounds fairly negative.

“C’mon, Alex,” Kent says softly, and he shifts his hips under Alex again, gripping his hair a little more tightly.

That gets Alex’s attention; he looks up at Kent through dark lashes, and it’d be sexy if he didn’t have pink crease lines pressed into his face from the folds in Kent’s T-shirt.

He doesn’t roll off, which was the whole purpose of Kent’s endeavor, but he does move himself up the couch a couple more inches and begin to mouth at the muscle joining Kent’s shoulder and neck.

Kent laughs softly, and it’s embarrassingly breathy, so he presses back at Alex to regain a bit of control.

Alex pushes up, folding his legs and sitting back so that his ass is on Kent’s thighs, his hands lightly gripping Kent’s hips. His dark curls are everywhere, his clothes are rumpled, he’s crushing Kent’s legs, and Kent has nowhere he’d rather be.

“It’s late,” Kent says, because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to leave if Alex doesn’t tell him to.

“Come to bed with me,” Alex says, and it’s quiet, cautious, unassuming.

Kent grins at him, just this side of sleazy as Alex climbs off the couch and helps him to his feet. Neither of them let go once they’re standing.

“Hey,” Alex says, voice rough.

“Hey,” Kent laughs, and he leans forward into Alex, their clasped hands awkwardly trapped between them as they kiss.

He’s tired, and he’s content, and maybe he’s got a lot more to figure out before he’s in the clear. He’s not doing better than he’s ever been before, but—well. Kent’s got a chance, now.

And maybe it’s not because of Alex or because he came out, but either way—that hasn’t been true in a long time.

 **/////**  

**Author's Note:**

> POSSIBLE TRIGGERS/SENSITIVE CONTENT:  
> \- two characters break up (no infidelity)  
> \- references to Jack's overdose  
> \- onscreen overdose of a background OC (he's okay)  
> \- character has diagnosed PTSD (includes going into shock, disordered sleeping)  
> \- a character is outed against his will (publicly)  
> \- another character comes out willingly (privately & publicly)  
> \- some mild instances of homophobic ideology/language  
> \- hockey-typical violence  
> \- some ableist & sexist language
> 
> The title comes indirectly from a Javier Velaza poem called El Salvavidas.
> 
> There are maybe 10 more scenes that didn't make it in the story, including Jack being a kind young robot and several rookies on their journeys of self-discovery. They'll probably make it on here at some point.
> 
> Last thing: naming a former Blues goalie's boyfriend the same thing as the current Blues goalie was a major fucking oversight. This is an AU where Brian Elliott doesn't exist; sacrifices must be made for art.


End file.
